Cheaters Never Prosper, and Neither Do Idiots
by Olivia94
Summary: When Juliet goes to Italy with Declan, Shawn goes missing in Vancouver. Everyone is convinced that he's dead, but is he? If not, will they be able to save him in time? Whumpage and Shules! :D
1. Daddy Issues

**Hey guys! New story! Yay!**

**This is going to be alternating first person, which I haven't tried yet, but I'm very excited about it. It will also be semi-long. Shorter than most of mine, but still pretty long. Ten chapters maybe. I don't really know. I guess we'll find out, won't we?**

**I really hope you enjoy it! :D**

**OooOooO**

I blame it on my dad.

You may wonder "Hmm, what does this nice, incredibly attractive young man with the fantastic hair blame on his father?" Well, the answer to that would be everything. Absolutely everything.

But that's not the point right now. Right now I am talking about the fact that I am stupidly, emotionally stunted. I mean, who else can I blame that on? Gus? No. This is textbook psychology-a fact, by the way, that I hate. I hate being textbook. Those things have way too many pages. Anyways, my dad never showed affection to me, which screwed me up so I have trouble showing affection, blah blah blah. Basically I have daddy issues.

Okay, so I'm getting off track. Must be my ADD acting up. Anyways, if you haven't been able to guess, this entire little rant has basically just been a way for me to introduce my problems with one Detective Juliet O'Hara.

Maybe you've heard of her, but if you haven't, I'll give you the run down. She's pretty much this gorgeous, kick-ass detective that sure knows a lot about the eighties. AKA, my dream girl.

Now, I know what you're thinking: I'm this sleek, smart, sly, funny, ruggedly handsome guy, so why have I had issues getting the girl? Well, check the intro. I'm emotionally stunted. And, for as smart as I am, I'm incredibly stupid.

Allow me to explain.

I'm one of those guys that dates a lot of girls. Not at one time, just in general. I flirt a lot, I date casually, and I avoid serious relationships.

Exhibit A: Abigail Lytar. In high school I had the biggest crush on her. I flirted for like, fifteen million years. And what did I do when she finally agreed to go with me? I chickened out. I stood her up. Like an idiot.

Exhibit B: Juliet O'Hara. I've been totally in love with her for like, five years. Here's where I'll stress emotionally stunted: I didn't realize it. I thought she was just another girl. By the time I finally realized it and decided to act on it, I was too late. About two minutes too late, actually. So I lost her. Like an idiot.

But then good ole Jules turned the tables. She kissed me. We're talking some serious first base action. I mean, I was so shocked I didn't really kiss back, but is that really my fault? She basically pounced on me.

So that brings us to the beginning of the story. Juliet had a boyfriend—an incredibly rich boyfriend with a really cool name—and was about to go on this once in a lifetime trip to the Amalfi coast. And me? I was sitting at home pining over the girl that I was too stupid to get.

Then my dad gave me a pep talk. "Tell her. Tell her now. Tell her five minutes from now. She goes off to Italy with a guy who's rich, who's crazy about her, she ain't coming back with any doubts."

As much as I hated it, and as much as I blame him for my situation, I knew he was right. So, very dramatically, I went down to the station to declare my love for her in what was sure to be a very big way.

She wasn't there. She had already left.

And who did I hear this from? Buzz. I hear from Buzz McNab. So at this point I'm sort of POed at her. I mean, she is dating someone else; she kisses me, then leaves the country with the other guy and doesn't even tell me she's going. I hate to sound like a girl, but seriously?

So at this point in what is bound to be an epic tale, that is where Jules and I stand. Well, where I stand with Jules.

It wasn't much better with Gus. You see, this old case sort of resurfaced because this super cool, kind-of art thief that we locked up wanted to meet with us. His name is Desperaeux. Pierre Desperaeux. Pronounced Des-per-oe. Don't let the x fool you.

Anyways, when I told Gus that Desperaeux wanted to see us, he didn't exactly react in the way that I would have wanted.

"No, Shawn. No way. There is not a chance that I'm going to see that wannabe criminal," He had told me, shaking his head forcefully as he said it.

"Gus, don't be the x-box controller with the broken y button. Of course you're coming with me," I had said in my totally macho, commanding way.

But Gus didn't budge. He absolutely refused to go see Desperaeux in Canada. Something about not wanting to 'miss work to see a deranged, dangerous criminal that would likely strike out violently and the first chance he had'. The wimp. Boy, would he end up feeling bad.

So, in a nutshell, I was fighting with my best friend, pissed at the girl I was in love with, and going all by my lonesome to cold, dark Canada to see a convicted criminal.

Hmmm. That was some good nutshelling. I might even be getting better than Gus.

So I'm in Canada. Surprisingly enough, Desperaeux really isn't important in this story. Well, he is in the way that he's the reason I went to Canada, but not really in anything else. I visited him and he told me about some insane plan he had for me to help him break out of prison. I guess there was some room he could hide out in between the visitor's room and his cell or something. It was the kind of thing I'd be totally hip with if Gus was here, but I was in a bad mood, so I told him that if he tried to hide out in my car I'd call the police. The poor guy seemed pretty beaten up about it, but like I said, he's not too important right now.

Really, our story starts during my drive from the lock up to my hotel. It was probably around five thirty when I got in my car, and the trip was about forty-five minutes.

I had to drive through some really boring scenery before I got to the actual city. Seriously, when I say boring, I mean boring. At least in the boring parts of like, Texas, there are cows and horses and stuff. All there was there were trees. Pretty trees, I'll admit, but a tree is a tree. That is, unless it's an Ent, but that's neither here nor there.

So I was pretty much stoked when I got to the city. It was getting dark by then and all of the buildings were lit up. It was so cool. Unfortunately, traffic was terrible so I had to take a back route. I got lost. I know what you're thinking, "How does a nice, incredibly attractive young man with fantastic hair and hawk-like directional skills get lost?" I wish I could tell you. I guess I was just distracted.

My detour took me into a pretty sketchy neighborhood. There was a dark, creepy alley every like, fifteen feet.

So there I was, minding my own business, harmlessly driving down the road, when something caught my attention. About a half block ahead of me, a large man was dragging a woman by her middle into an alley.

It was the kind of thing where I saw it, blinked, and it was gone. That's how quick it was. I wasn't even sure I saw what I thought I saw. But what was I supposed to do? Ignore it? No, I stopped my car, jumped out, and sprinted heroically down the alley after the man. Like an idiot.

Really, I didn't even think about it. I didn't take a moment to go, "Hey, Shawn! This may not be the best idea. Maybe you should call the police." I just kind of acted instinctively. Like it was a reflex.

Anyways, this particular alley led all the way through to another street, and had a large garage branching off of it. I could have sworn I saw a foot being pulled around the corner and into the garage, so I followed it. Like an idiot.

I turned the corner to the garage, but I never saw the man or the girl. All I saw was a bright flash of light before hearing a loud 'bang'. I was out before I hit the ground.

**OooOooO**

**Oh! What happened? Oh, wait. I know. *****evil laugh * I guess you'll have to keep reading to find out. Even though this cliffe won't be resolved for a very long time…**

**ANYWAYS! Please review! It means a lot! What do you want to see happen? Thanks so much! **


	2. Worry

**Hey, guys! Thanks so much for all the fantastic reviews! You rock! **

**By the way, I don't own Psych. I forgot that part…**

**OooOooO**

_**GUS**_

Shawn's talking about me like I was the bad guy, isn't he? Don't answer that. I know he is. Typical.

So basically I'm about to embark on my side of the story. I will warn you that, Shawn being Shawn, our stories might not match up perfectly. I can tell you, though, that my side is absolutely, one hundred percent true.

I guess this whole thing started when Shawn asked me to go with him to see Desperaeux in Canada.

"What's up, man? You know what? Don't tell me. No matter what the answer is, I'm about to make your day better," Shawn said exuberantly as he entered the Psych office.

Maybe you're thinking that I should have been excited about whatever surprise he had for me. If you are, you're dead wrong. "What is it, Shawn?" I asked him, filled with dread.

What you have to understand is that Shawn's idea of a 'good surprise' ranges from the grocery re-stocking their pineapple supply, to a triple homicide that just happened to happen under the SBPD's jurisdiction. It seems like they've all been leaning closer to the latter lately…

"We're going to Canada!" His voice expressed his pure, unadulterated delight at his revelation. He looked like a six-year-old boy on Christmas morning.

But I knew this routine all too well.

"No, Shawn. Absolutely not. I am not going with you on another 'purely platonic in a bromantic kind of way' weekend with you. Not again," If you don't know, please don't ask. Though at the time I was wondering what girl he could possibly have been planning on taking with him.

"Come on, buddy! It's nothing like that! Let's just say that I got a call from a very old friend who wants to see us." From the glint in his eyes I had a feelingwho he was talking about. I decided to find out for sure, anyways.

"You better be talking about Macintosh…" I did my best to keep my voice low and dangerous, but Shawn looked unfazed—if anything, his ridiculous grin grew bigger.

"Nope. Better."

That's when I knew.

"No! No way. There is no chance on Earth that I'm going to see that wannabe criminal!"

This is the point in our story where I'm sure we'll find differences. You see, Shawn is convinced that the reason I don't want to do certain things with him, for instance, flying out of the country to see a crazy criminal, is because I'm scared. He doesn't take the fact that I have another full time job into account.

"But Gus! Canada is one of the top fifteen countries in the entire world!" Shawn cried.

"And how many countries are there, Shawn?"

"At least fifteen, maybe more!"

I sighed. How is it possible for someone so smart to be so incredibly stupid?

"Come on, Gus! What, are you chicken?" Shawn taunted. Yes, with the chicken motions and bocks and everything.

"No, Shawn! I just happen to have a full time job that requires my attention right now," I explained to him.

He sighed dramatically. "Fine then. I see that you're going to leave me on my own to go to cold, dark Canada."

"You're going to Vancouver, Shawn. And it's seventy degrees there right now."

He shook his head. "Irrelevant. And plus, how do you know that?"

"The temperature? I have it under my cities for the weather updates on my iPhone, along with Miami, New York, Houston, Bangkok, Beijing, Istanbul, and Tegucigalpa."

"Where's Teguci—you know what? I can't do this with you right now. I've got a plane to catch." He huffed dramatically and made his way to the door.

"You're not leaving until tomorrow, Shawn!" I called after him. He didn't even acknowledge me as he slammed the door.

You see what I'm up against? He's insufferable. I only talked to him one more time after that, and it was right before he got on the plane. Of course by then our 'fight' was long forgotten. He told me that he would call me as soon as he got to his hotel that night.

He never did.

Now really, that alone wasn't enough to worry me. Shawn sucks at communication like Lassiter sucks at compassion. I called him a few times and he still didn't answer, but I still wasn't worried: he'd probably just lost his cell or something. It wasn't until the next morning that I got uneasy. I mean, Shawn's bad at communication, but he wouldn't forget to call me completely. Normally he'd just end up calling me at two o'clock in the morning, and when I yelled at him for waking me up, he'd apologize and say that he was on 'Canada Time'.

But he didn't even do that. So I called his hotel. He hadn't checked in. He was supposed to check in right after he saw Desperaeux, but he hadn't shown up.

Now I was worried. If you know Shawn at all you know that he has a tendency to get himself into trouble like every fifteen minutes.

After a while of just pacing my office at Central Coast, praying for the phone to ring, I finally decided to go to the only person I could think to: Lassiter.

Yes, I know. But he really wouldn't be my first choice. Normally I'd got to Juliet, but considering the fact that she was in Italy with Declan, that seemed like a very bad idea. And going to Henry was just a bad idea no matter what the situation.

So I went to Lassiter. Let's just say that he didn't respond to my concerns very well.

"Are you kidding, Guster? You pull me away from my extremely important police work because you can't find Spencer?" He sounded very angry with me…

"He was supposed to call me and he never did; and he never checked into his hotel, either. I'm worried."

"Knowing Spencer, his phone was probably stolen by a hobo. I'm not going to waste my time and effort to search for a man-boy who is probably just out with some girl."

I knew that there was no chance of that, but I chose not to say anything. I don't think Lassie needed to hear about what happened with Shawn and his partner.

"Look Guster, if you get some tangible proof that something's happened, call me. If not, stay the hell out of my way."

Wow. Lassiter was almost kind of nice for a second.

After that I calmed down a little. Lassiter was probably right. I was over reacting. Right? Wrong.

I got a call from him about a half hour later.

"Burton Guster, Central Coast—" Lassiter didn't even let me finish my spiel.

"Pack your bags, Guster. We're going to Vancouver," His voice sounded… was that worry? Definitely not good.

"What? Why? What happened?" 

"Spencer's rental car was found. It was about thirty feet from a crime scene."

**OooOooO**

**What did you think? I really don't like writing Gus, so this might suck. Tell me! **

**Merry Christmas! Happy Holidays! If I get enough reviews I'll update before 2011! What do you want to see happen in this story? **


	3. International Investigator Extraordinare

_**LASSITER**_

The first thing that I'd like to make one hundred percent, perfectly clear, is that I absolutely do not care about Shawn Spencer. At all. He's a pain in my backside, and I would like nothing more for him to just go away and never, ever come back.

That being said, his… _accidental_ involvement in that case in Vancouver presented me with a very interesting opportunity. Detective Carlton Lassiter: International Investigator Extraordinaire. It has a nice ring to it, doesn't it? I'm thinking about getting it printed onto mugs and handing them out as Christmas presents.

The point is, it's not very often that the police from one country call in the police from another. True, I wasn't _exactly_ asked for help, more like informed that one of my men was involved, but still. I was going to Vancouver and that was all that mattered.

And maybe I was just a _little _concerned about Spencer. It wasn't looking good for him. I'm not going to go into the details of the crime scene just yet, but once I do, you'll understand.

So I called Guster, blah, blah, blah, we arrived in Vancouver. You know, Guster isn't a whole lot of fun… well, ever. But he was really off for the entire trip over. He would go a half hour in complete silence, and then he would switch over to talking non-stop. I know that O'Hara would offer words of comfort or some crap along those lines, but when he started talking I resorted to threatening him with my gun—not that I had mine with me, damned airlines, but it still shut him up.

So yeah, anyways, we're in Vancouver. As soon as the plane landed, I pulled out my phone and called that little squirt Macintosh.

"Macintosh." He answered the phone with all the enthusiasm of a rookie.

"This is Detective Carlton Lassiter. My associate and myself have just arrived in Vancouver. What is the location of the crime scene we discussed earlier?"

"Wait, um, excuse me? You're wh-where?" The imbecile.

"I am here in Vancouver. Would you like it if I spelled it out for you?"

"Oh, uh, yes sir! I just wasn't aware that you were coming here. To Vancouver."

I rolled my eyes. "Would you just give me the location?"

"Yes, sir, it's off of Ridgeway and Mountainside, but I don't think—" I hung up on him. He was starting to annoy me.

Guster shifted in his seat to look at me curiously. I think he was trying to convey one of those 'unasked questions', but I didn't give him the satisfaction of biting.

"What?" I snapped at him.

He sighed exasperatedly. "What did he say?"

"He just gave me the location of Spencer's car," I told him, specifically avoiding the use of the phrase 'crime scene'. I really didn't want him to freak out and start flapping his gums again.

Guster just nodded. "Oh, okay."

God, that sad puppy look was really starting to gnaw on my last nerve. I inhaled deeply. This was going to be a long trip.

OooOooO

We arrived at the crime scene with very little conversation. I could tell that Guster was getting antsier by the second, but I chose to ignore it. I guess if it was O'Hara instead of Spencer I'd be the same way, so I resisted threatening him within an inch of his life because of all of the incessant shifting and tapping that he had going on.

"We're here," I announced as I parked our rental in a space across the street from the scene. I seemed to pull him out of his own little world.

"What? Oh, right." He looked around for a moment, seemingly taking in our surroundings for the first time. Guster's seriously got to work on being vigilant. How he and Spencer had survived for so long still puzzles me.

I got out of the car and made my way across the street towards the yellow tape, assuming the whole time that Guster was following me. I was wrong. I made it all the way to the other side of the street before I noticed the lack of footsteps behind me. I spun around.

"Guster!" I called to the unmoving man across from me. When there was no response I sighed heavily, ran my hand through my hair, and went back to him. "Come on, Guster. We've got a crime scene to investigate." Whoops. There I go with the 'crime scene' thing.

His eyes snapped up to meet mine. He started breathing heavily.

"Crap," I said under my breath. I knew it was a bad idea to bring him.

"What if it's bad?" He sounded weak and vulnerable. Perfect. Now I had to be compassionate. I suck at that.

"Look, Guster. All we know is that that car," I pointed across the street to a rental parked haphazardly, halfway on a curb, "is Spencer's rental. We don't know what we're going to find down that alley, but we know that we _aren't_ going to find Spencer's body; they would have told us if that was the case. Yes, for all we know, Spencer could be dead. But he could also be alive. So you're going to have to man up and come with me to find out."

He didn't seem to be overly comforted by my reassurance, but he straightened a slight bit and nodded.

"Good," I told him and headed back across the street. This time I heard footsteps.

Macintosh was waiting for us on the other side.

"Detective Lassiter!" He sounded flustered, as always. He's been nervous around me ever since I made it _perfectly _clear that I do not, in fact, work for Spencer. I may have been a little harsh with the man the last time he referred to Shawn as 'Head Detective Shawn Spencer'.

"Macintosh," I nodded my greeting. "Where is the primary crime scene?"

He pointed to the car, "That right there is Mr. Spencer's rental car. It was discovered—"

The amateur.

"Excuse me, hate to interrupt, but is that the _primary _crime scene?" Macintosh shook his head quickly. "Is there any sort of evidence of wrongdoing in that car?"

He shook his head again. "No, sir, but the keys are still in the ignition, which indicates that Mr. Spencer left the car in a hurry—"

"How about this, Macintosh," I slung an arm around his shoulders and could feel him quaking. It was entertaining, "why don't you show me something that I can actually work with?"

"Yes, sir! Right away, sir!" He spun around, ducked under my arm, and made his way down an alley about twenty feet away.

I started to follow him, but remembered Guster. As expected, he was still standing in the same spot. I rolled my eyes again and grabbed his elbow, pulling him after me.

The alley was pretty long, but the scene was only about halfway down it, right where a large garage branched off of it. Well, it wasn't exactly a garage, more like a storage unit with a garage door on it. I don't get it either. Canadians, what can you do?

There was a large group of people surrounding something on the ground, so I couldn't see what it was at first.

I kind of wish I never did.

Right on the ground there was a massive pool of blood that was smeared over the concrete for several feet, as if whoever had been injured was dragged into the storage unit. By massive I really do mean massive—I've been to murder scenes where there was less blood. There was no way anyone could survive a wound that bled that much. I turned around to tell Guster to go back, but he wasn't there. I assumed he had chickened out and gone back already, but then I saw him bent over and retching out of the corner of my eye.

"Crap." Just what I needed. I walked over to him and put a hand on his shoulder awkwardly. "Come on, Guster. Just go back and wait in the car. I'll be there in a minute."

I don't think he heard me; the guy was hysterical. "Oh my God. The blood—there's so much blood! It's Shawn's, isn't it? He's dead. Oh, God, he's dead!"

As much as I wanted to hit him upside the head and tell him to pull it together, I knew that that wouldn't do any good in this situation. "You don't know that, Gus. We don't even know for sure that he was here."

Guster straightened from his hunched over position, looked at me sadly, and raised a shaking arm to point at an object laying on the ground a few feet away. I couldn't tell what it was at first, but as I got closer I saw that it was one of those stupid iPhone things. Why do people need a phone to do anything but make and receive calls? I'll never understand it.

"A phone? Guster that doesn't mean—"

"Look at the case," He said simply. The guy was about to cry, which I just couldn't handle.

I did what he said. The phone had been completely destroyed—it looked like someone had thrown it against a wall—but I could see a shard of lime green. I pulled a latex glove out of my pocket and slipped it on before squatting down, picking up the largest piece, and flipping it over so I could see the case.

My heart sunk in my chest. The word 'psych' was imprinted in large white letters on the green case. Only one person would have such a ridiculous case on their cell phone.

I put the phone back on the ground and stood up.

I guess Guster could tell what I was thinking by my facial expression, because suddenly he leaned against the alley wall and slid to the ground. His shoulders started shaking as he cried.

I've faced serial killers, tracked down kidnappers, and had standoffs with murderers in my lifetime. For some reason, being the only one around to comfort a full grown, sobbing man is one of the most intimidating situations I've ever been in.

"Look, Guster. All this proves is that Shawn was here. He could have run away or been kidnapped. It doesn't mean—"

"Don't. It's him. I _know_ it's him," He put his face in his hands and continued to cry.

Not knowing what else to say, I sat down next to him and stayed silent.

"He's dead, isn't he?" Guster lifted his head out of his hands to look me in the eye. He was silently begging me to tell him that everything would be fine, but I couldn't.

"We don't even know if it's him—"

"Fine then. Whoever's blood this is, they're dead, aren't they?" I hesitated, "Tell me the truth, Lassiter," He pleaded, though his eyes were begging me to lie.

I looked over at the puddle of blood just a few feet away. I sighed and answered, choosing my words carefully, "In my professional opinion…yes. Whoever was lying there bleeding most likely did not survive."

**OooOooO**

**Yes, I'm evil. I know. The next chapter will pick up with Gus when they arrive at the crime scene, and then transfer to Juliet in Italy. **

**I went back and re-watched bits and pieces of "Extradition" and "Extradition 2", but there's REALLY little interaction between Lassie and Macintosh, so I'm super sorry if I just butchered that part :/**

**And to answer the question that basically everyone has asked, the cliffie isn't going to be resolved for a while. Sorry. I think it's better that way, though. **

**Please review! I promise it makes me write faster! Thanks! :D**


	4. Nightmares

**SUPER DUPER IMPORTANT!****—****Sometime very soon you will be seeing a new story by me, only it won't be under my name. I'm currently working on a co write with the fantastic Syncop8ed Rhythm. For those on fanfic, the story will be posted under the author ****Psydekicks.**** I'm not exactly sure when it'll come out, but it'll be soon. Keep an eye out! Thanks! :D **

**OooOooO**

_**GUS**_

So I see that Lassiter was kind enough to tell you about my little breakdown. I'm really not as embarrassed as you might think. I have enough faith in humanity to believe that you'll be sympathetic. I mean, I was just told that my best friend was dead.

Don't tell him I said this, but I trust Lassiter more than almost anybody. Shawn and Juliet and my family come first, of course, and I'm more than certain that he would take a shot at me if given a reason and opportunity, but he has proven himself to be a pretty good detective. If he said it, I believed it.

I know that that seems a little hypocritical considering that I didn't listen to him when he insisted that it might not be Shawn. But that's different: I _knew _it was Shawn. I don't know how, I could just feel it. There was this creeping feeling of dread inside of me.

After he told me that whoever had been bleeding was dead, I just sat and cried. I don't know how long. My whole world had been rocked; Shawn and I have been inseparable since we were five years old. How was I supposed to live without him? Lassiter sat by me the whole time—a fact that I can respect. Shawn and Lassie have never been what you'd call close. I've actually always thought that he hated Shawn a little bit.

After a long time of just sitting and thinking about nothing specific (my mind was kind of racing really fast—too fast for me to catch up) something hit me: Juliet.

Finally with something tangible to process, my irrational mind had this need to talk to her. She had to know. It didn't so much occur to me that it was a little premature to be giving such Earth-shattering news, or that it wasn't news best given over the phone, or that there was a nine-hour time difference. I had to tell her.

There was stuff going on between her and Shawn. I knew it was big, too, because he wouldn't talk to me about it. Every time I brought her up he'd get awkward and shifty. For some reason, at the time, I translated that into her absolutely having to know right then that Shawn was dead.

I pulled out my cell phone. My hands were so shaky that the phone fell out of my hands.

"What are you doing?" Lassiter asked me.

"I've got to call Juliet," I muttered, dialing her number frantically.

"Wait, what?" Lassiter grabbed my cell phone from me. "That's not a good idea."

"What are you talking about? Shawn is dead! She needs to know," I insisted, my voice cracking at the word 'dead'.

Lassiter was shaking his head—was that sympathetically? "Look, Guster. I know you're upset, but calling her is a bad idea. We are not calling O'Hara until we know about Spencer for sure one way or another."

"You know I'm upset? No you don't! I just lost my best friend, Lassiter. My BEST FRIEND!" I'm a little ashamed to say that I was screaming at this point. I hate making a scene. "Juliet has to know—Shawn would want her to know. I am making that call, and if you want to stop me, shoot me." I grabbed the phone out of his hands and began dialing again.

Looking back, offering to let Lassiter shoot me is one of the biggest lapses of judgment I've ever made. He looked angry at my outburst, but he stood up and walked away, giving me privacy to make the call. What do you know? The guy has a heart.

I attempted to steady myself as I hit the call button.

OooOooO

_**JULIET**_

Before I start my little side of the story, I feel like I need to defend myself. I know that you are probably judging and hating me for going to Italy with Declan. Trust me, I'm hating myself, too. But please, I ask you to at least consider what I have to say.

Shawn is a great guy. He really, really is. I care about him more than anyone else in the world, which is sort of the problem.

He rejected me. That was a long time ago, I know, but it wasn't the kind of rejection that a person just forgets. My heart broke in my chest that night at the drive-in when he turned me down. Yes, he had a date at the time that I asked him out, but funnily enough, I wasn't exactly considering the rationality of his actions when I was sitting at home with a tub of Ben and Jerry's.

I'm not sure whether you're a girl or not, (I can't exactly see you) but if you are, you've got to be able to sympathize with me on some level. I cared too much about him, and he broke my heart.

When I heard him say that he couldn't be happy without me and that my dating Declan was 'killing him', like twenty-five emotions hit me at once. There was pure joy, anger, guilt—the list could go on and on. The reasoning behind the pure joy is pretty obvious. If it's not to you, I think you're a little too young to be hearing all of this. The guilt is pretty obvious, too. I was dating another guy and it was hurting someone I cared about. It broke my heart. And then the anger. A little, tiny part of me was seriously pissed. What right did he have to reject me and then drop a bombshell on me like that while I was dating someone else? Sure, he didn't exactly know I was listening, but that didn't really occur to me at the time.

Come on. You can't judge me. You can't tell me that you've never let emotions cloud your better judgment or make you think irrationally. Well, you could, but you'd be lying.

Okay, moving on to the kiss. Obviously that was poor judgment on my part. That and the whole not going after him part. And the going to Italy with Declan part. You know what? I get it, and you should, too. Haven't you ever made a mistake? I was scared and confused, so I went for the easy way out.

Unfortunately, sometimes the easiest way is also the most painful.

It was two in the morning when I received the worst phone call of my entire life.

"Hello?" I'm sure my voice was groggy and thick was sleep. I wasn't exactly expecting calls in the dead of the night.

"Juliet."

"Gus?" The fact that Gus was calling me wasn't all that surprising—I mean, we _are_ friends. The fact that he, who is one of the most considerate people I know, was calling me at such an inconvenient time did.

Not to mention how absolutely miserable he sounded. Seriously, I don't think that anyone has ever conveyed as much pain in one word as Gus did.

"Is everything okay?" I whispered, slipping out of bed quietly and making my way to the balcony.

"No," Gus answered bluntly and brokenly.

My heart dropped down to my toes and I stopped in my tracks. There was only one reason Gus would be acting in the way that he was. Shawn.

"Just hold on one second, okay?" I waited until the sliding balcony door was firmly shut before returning to Gus. "What happened?" I did my best to keep the growing panic out of my voice. I've never been too good at hiding my emotions.

"It's Shawn," He told me, his voice breaking at the name.

"Is he okay?" I knew the answer, but needed to hear Gus say it to really believe it.

"No."

I felt the familiar sensation of tears prickling at the back of my eyes. I was absolutely terrified, but I couldn't break down. Not yet, anyways. I had to know.

"Can I talk to him?"

"No." Gus's voice was getting thicker by the second. I could tell that he was barely hanging on.

By this point, the moisture in my eyes was beginning to overflow and roll down my face slowly. But I still couldn't loose it. I _needed _to know.

"Gus. Is Shawn alive?" I asked slowly and clearly, fighting to keep my voice steady.

He didn't answer. My heart stopped and my lungs failed me. I felt like I was dying. Like I was falling fast and I knew I was about to hit the ground.

"Please, Gus. Please," I whispered, begging him. Whether I was begging for him to tell me what happened or what I wanted to hear, I really don't know. As much as I didn't want to know, I had to. "Is he alive?"

There was a horrible stretch of silence that seemed to last forever. If it weren't for the faint sounds of his shallow breathing and muffled cries, I would've thought that Gus had been disconnected.

"I don't know."

I let out a choked sob at the words. I knew in my heart that he was going to tell me something bad had happened, but having my worst nightmare confirmed was… I can't even explain it… it was like having all of the worst possible things that could ever happen to a person happen all at once. It was like someone sucked all of the air out of the world. All the happiness.

I couldn't even manage to try and comfort Gus, who had started hyperventilating on the other end. I stood, frozen in place for a moment, unable to register what was happening. It was a sort of shock were I couldn't move or think. It was like I was filled with a binding, inescapable pain.

Then reality hit me like a freight train. Shawn was dead. _Dead. _The fact that Gus had said 'I don't know' not 'no' didn't really register. My mind automatically went to dozens of worst-case scenarios. Crime scenes from past cases ran through my head, all with Shawn as the victim. Shawn lying in a pool of his own blood. Shawn's body at the bottom of a lake. Shawn thrown into a landfill or buried in some insignificant place in the woods.

And suddenly I couldn't do it anymore. I couldn't hang on. My phone clattered to the floor as my strength left me. Legs weak, I leaned against the building walls and slid to the ground. I pulled my knees to my chest and sobbed uncontrollably.

My worst nightmare had become a reality.

**OooOooO**

**Weren't expecting that, were you? A chapter with like, no comedy. It was actually pretty heavy. Don't worry, friends, I'll find a way to bring it back. **

**By the way, thanks so much for all the fantastic reviews! I actually think that this might be my best-reviewed story so far, which is awesome! Thanks so much! **

**Please keep it up! Reviews mean more to an author than you can possibly know. Well, unless you **_**are **_**an author… **


	5. Reality Check

_**LASSITER**_

So I'm going to interject here in an attempt to bring some sanity back to this story. At the rate we're going so far you must be thinking you're watching a _Lifetime _Original Movie. Honestly, this is just getting ridiculous. I knew that Guster had the self-control of fetal kitten, but I would've thought that O'Hara would rein herself in at least a little. I actually didn't know about her little emotional breakdown until she just talked about it—I was too busy trying to keep Guster from putting our crime scene underwater to fully consider how she would be handling the news.

"Um… Detective Lassiter?" Macintosh was clearly uncomfortable interrupting what must have looked like me comforting Gus. I was really just sitting next to him, watching him cry.

Well what was I supposed to do?

"Yes?" I stood up and walked over to Macintosh, happy for an excuse to break away for a moment.

"As soon as you're done here, you and your partner—"

Oh, God. First this sad excuse for a law enforcement officer thinks that Spencer is my boss, then he thinks that _Guster_—the man who, at the time, was crying like a toddler who let go of a balloon—is my partner?

"What? No. No no no no no no no. No. He is not my partner," I set him straight, pointing to Gus. "He is a consultant to the SBPD." 

"Okay, well, as soon as you're done here, you and your… consultant… can go back to the station. We believe that a camera from that store," He pointed towards a dark building across the street, "may have caught something on its security cameras."

I nodded; maybe the kid wouldn't be _completely _worthless. "Any leads on where the vic was taken?"

Macintosh shook his head. "The trail spreads into that storage unit and then stops completely. We've got people looking into the owners of the unit now."

Our conversation didn't go behind that because, from behind us, Guster was losing the last ounce of sanity that he had left.

"Oh, God! I forgot! How could I not think of that? I've got to call him! He has to know!" He was mumbling frantically while wildly searching the area around him. I can't say for sure, but it seemed to me that Guster had forgotten that he was holding the phone in his hand.

I abandoned my conversation with Macintosh and surged forward, grabbing the phone out of Gus's hand. In his state of delusional hysteria there was no telling what he was planning on doing.

"Who? Who are you going to call?"

Gus looked up at me angrily. "Give me my phone back!" He cried. I wondered how he could still move his face with all of the dried tears sticking it together.

"Not until you tell me who you want to call, Guster. This is an active case. You can't just go around telling everyone classified details."

"Henry! I have to call Henry! He has to know that Shawn is… that he's…"

He broke down. Again.

This was getting way too Oprah for me.

"Are you crazy, Guster? You can't call Henry!" When Gus looked at me questioningly I elaborated. "You've already called O'Hara in the middle of her vacation and told her that Spencer is dead. You're not calling his father, too—not when we don't know for sure."

"But—"

"No buts, Guster! There isn't a shred of solid evidence that says that Spencer is the victim. Do you really want to call Henry and give him the worst news of his life when you don't know for sure?"

I could see the man's resolve fade as he saw the logic behind what I was saying. He sniffled and then nodded his head.

"We're going to go to the station so we can find Spencer, okay?" I helped Gus up off of the alley floor.

He brushed himself off and nodded again, then he looked at me meaningfully. I was worried that he was going to burst into tears for the thousandth time (how had he not lost all of the water in his body yet?) but what he did was much worse: he hugged me.

I awkwardly patted the other man's back as he clung to me like a baby chimp to its mother. It was going to be a long night.

OooOooO

_**SHAWN**_

Hello, all!

So, I'll betcha've been worried about me, huh? Yep. I knew it. The tension caused by the lack of info from Lassie's end must be killer.

Well keep on worrying because the reality from my end pretty much sucks, too.

First you should know that I don't remember much, which is really weird coming from me. Funny how being shot and kidnapped will do that to you. I do remember bits and pieces, but everything's a little… well… scrambled. And psychotic. And ridiculous.

I can't tell you how long it was before I woke up, or where I woke up, but I can tell you that I wasn't alone. A girl was there. I'd say it's a pretty safe bet that it was the same girl that I was tragically shot trying to rescue.

The girl was leaning over me, putting a bandage around my stomach. I think she was using fabric from my jacket—or was it my shirt? I really don't remember. But I DO remember what she looked like. She was beautiful: Long, blondish-brown hair that fell in waves around her shoulders. She had beautiful big, blue eyes.

Okay, wait. That's not the girl. That's Jules. Was Jules there? I'm pretty sure she was, but I know that she wasn't. Okay, I saw here there, but she wasn't there. I guess it was one of those crazy side effects of basically having all of the blood drained out of your body.

"Look what you've gotten yourself into," Fake Jules was saying.

"What?" I mumbled. Whether it was out loud or in my head I can't say…

"You can't do anything right! First you drive me away, then you go and get yourself killed." Fake Jules was really angry.

"I didn't drive you away! You left. You went to the Amalfi coast with Mr. Monopoly instead of staying with me. That isn't my fault. And this isn't either. How was I supposed to know that a casual drive through the dangerous, gang-infested alleys—wait, killed? Did you say killed? Am I dead?" I felt panic rising inside of me. I didn't want to be dead.

"No." Fake Juliet assured me, "Not yet. But you will be soon."

**OooOooO**

**HEY! How's it going?**

**So, I know that pretty much all of you hate me right now. I don't blame you. It's been a CRAZY few weeks. Softball season's starting and I had the school musical. Seriously no free time to write. Sorry!**

**It'll get better, I promise!**

**Please review, guys! I know that I've been awful, but I'd still really appreciate it! Thanks! :D**


	6. Psychosis, Horror Movies, and Rasputin

_**SHAWN**_

I didn't like Fake Jules. I may not remember a whole lot, but I definitely remember that. She was nothing like the real Jules. Well, she was in the way that she looked and sounded exactly like her, but other than that she was completely different.

She was pretty much lifeless. Other than the random, semi-psychotic bursts of anger she had at first, she sort of just sat and stared at me.

Her eyes might have been the exact same color blue as Jules—you know, that really clear color blue that somehow manages to make her seem warm, kind, intelligent, and intense all at the same time—but when I looked into them all I could see was this dull indifference. Is it weird that I preferred her psycho-angry side over the side that just didn't care?

"Not yet. But you will be soon." The emotion slid off of fake Jules's face like an overthrown pizza crust slides down the wall of a kitchen (Trust me, I worked in a pizzeria in Memphis for two weeks when I was nineteen. The dough doesn't make as good of a Frisbee as you might think…) She showed no concern over my injured state. In all fairness, she could probably tell that a little piece of metal was no match for a rock like me.

"What's that supposed to mean?" I wondered.

Fake Jules just stared at me for a moment. After a while, I sort of expected for her to smile at me creepishly like the Cheshire cat, or maybe make her head spin around three-hundred-sixty degrees like that little girl from _The Grudge. _Or was it _The Exorcist? _Maybe _The Shining?_ I've never actually seen that movie… OH! _Anastasia! _

Wait…

Oh, whatever. It's a nuance.

"You aren't dead, Shawn. You _are_ dying." Fake Jules told me like she was informing me that it was going to rain tomorrow.

"What happened?" I vaguely realized that I was lying on my back, (in the _supine_ position, if you will) holding the sickeningly damp fabric to the crater in my stomach. 'Jules' was sitting, leaning her back against some sort of wall a couple of feet away from me. By the shifting I barely registered under me, I figure we were in a van.

Fake Jules shrugged and continued to stare at me. I guess it makes sense that she wouldn't know. She was, after all, just a blood-loss-induced hallucination. How could she possibly know more than I did? Since, at that point, I couldn't remember really anything, she wouldn't have a whole lot to tell me.

"Does it hurt?" She asked me, pointing at my stomach. Her voice didn't hold an ounce of concern. If anything she was asking out of some sick curiosity.

"Not really," I told her honestly. Part of me realized that it should.

When I tried to look at my war-wound and take in the extent of the damage, I realized for the first time that it was pitch-black.

So, I'm going to take a moment to switch from Lemony Snicket back to Shawn and explain some things.

You have to understand how completely, ridiculously, slightly embarrassingly disoriented I was at this point. I didn't remember anything, I didn't really register the situation, and I don't think I even really realized that the woman wasn't the real Jules. I knew she was different, but my mind wasn't so much putting two and two together. Remember the whole 'shot in the stomach' thing?

Just about all of my rationalizations about my situation are retrospective. Like, now I say that it seemed like we were in a van, but at the time I might've thought we were on freaking Endor. It's kind of like how I now realize that, in my drunken-esque haze, I felt another human presence somewhere in the darkness and embodied it with Jules. In all likelihood it was actually that poor girl who was being kidnapped when I was brutally attacked and taken captive.

Okay, do you get it now? Yeah, me neither.

I was about to ask Fake Jules why she turned the lights off when the consistent motion below me stopped.

"Jules? What's going on?" I asked her when I heard a loud noise (probably the door of the van being opened and shut).

Fake Jules shrugged again disinterestedly.

"Wait, why can I see you but nothing else?"

I bet that astute observation would have made ole' Henry proud.

Fake Jules didn't have long to answer. The back doors of the van were thrown open, letting in so much light that I vaguely wondered if we had somehow driven all the way to the sun.

The light didn't last very long, though, as the blood loss caught up with me and I was swallowed by darkness once more.

The last thing I remember seeing was Fake Jules face. She was still staring at me indifferently, and as I slipped into unconsciousness I wondered why she had stopped caring.

**OooOooO**

**Well that's sort of depressing. How did that happen? **

**Sorry if this was too confusing, but it really isn't supposed to make much sense. **

**And guys, I know it's been a long time, but I really am doing my best with the updating. I don't even have time to sit around and complain about how busy I am anymore. **

**The next few will be Juliet, Lassie, and Henry. Not necessarily in that order…**

**Sorry this is shortish. I wanted to put a Jules POV, but I'm about to pass out. It's either this or you'd have to wait. Sorry!**

**Thanks so much for the reviews! Y'all have been so great and understanding! Just so you know, I got the inspiration to write this because I got a new review, and then went back and read all the old ones. It really makes a difference! PLEASE REVIEW! Thanks so much! :D**


	7. Guilt

**_HENRY_**

I swear, one of these days, people are gonna realize that I'm not a complete idiot. I was a cop, you know—a damn good one, too, if I may say so myself.

And still, time after time, these high and mighty, young(ish—it depends on whether you're talking about Lassiter or O'Hara) detectives feel the need to shelter me like I wouldn't know which end of the gun to hold.

Even if no one wanted to inform me as a father that my only son was missing, you'd think that someone would have the professional courtesy to let me know that the SBPD's most valuable consultant—aka, my number one responsibility—was MIA.

But, of course, _Detective Lassiter, _decides he's gonna 'pull rank' on me and keep me out of the loop. Trust me, that's a mistake he'll never make again.

And it's not like I'm much happier with Shawn. I tell you what, you can train 'em and train 'em all you want, but some kids just never learn. I mean, who follows a perp down an alley, unarmed, without backup—and in a foreign country no less? Shawn does, that's who. He forgot all of his training and took off to try and save that girl without a second thought

I'm damn proud of the kid.

**OooOooO**

**_JULIET_**

Well hello there. It's been quite a while since I've had a turn to speak, so I'll give you a little recap.

Pretty much, when we last left off I was sitting, crying like an idiot on the balcony of my hotel suite in Italy, where I was with Declan. I, and just about the rest of the world, was seriously hating myself.

Not only was I hating myself for the obvious—you know, the whole breaking Shawn's heart and running off to a foreign, romantic country with another man, thing—but as I sat there sobbing I kept screaming at myself, "_Stop it! Suck it up and go help Lassiter! It's the least you can do for him". _ But I didn't. I just sat there and kept on crying. I couldn't even tell you for how long. I sat there crying, and hating myself for it.

"Juliet?" Declan's voice came from the doorway. I buried my face even farther in my knees, and, if possible, started crying harder. I _so_ did not want to see him. "Juliet, are you okay?" His voice was filled with worry which sent yet another pang of guilt my way. I didn't deserve it.

Declan crossed the balcony to where I was and slid down the wall beside me. He tried to put his arm around me, but I shrugged it off. I didn't deserve his comfort, either. "Juliet, what's wrong?"

He waited patiently as I tried to find my voice. "Shawn…" I finally managed to croak out.

"What about him?" I could've sworn I heard a tiny bit of jealousy in Declan's voice.

"H-He… He's d-dead," Of course, saying it out loud cranked up the waterworks yet another notch.

Declan didn't respond for a really long time. I guess he was trying to register the news, too. It's fair, I guess. Even if I wasn't imagining, the jealousy in his voice, he and Shawn had gotten on pretty well.

"W-What? How?"

I just kept my face buried and shook my head. Gus hadn't told me, but I didn't really need to know. Dead is dead.

I heard Declan sign sadly. His arm went around me again and he said, "Shh, Juliet. It'll be okay."

Boy did that piss me off. I raised my face off of my knees and shrugged his arm off again. "What? H-How can you say…say that? How…How will an-anything ever b-be okay again? Shawn is d-dead and he's nev…never coming back!" I screamed at him. At some point in my little rant I had jumped to my feet, so I was yelling down at him.

Declan stood up and looked at me. "I know," He said simply, but I could tell by the sadness in his eyes that he really did.

He went to hug me, and this time I let him. Before you mob me, let me explain that I wasn't hugging him because he was him; I was hugging him because he was _there. _

If that makes any sense…

"Dec…" I began slowly.

"It's okay, I get it," He said, letting go of me.

"I am so sorry," I told him honestly. Declan really was a great guy. He just wasn't great for _me._

"Me too," He replied.

God I felt like a jerk.

"I'll call the airfield. The plane can be ready to go in an hour. You just pack." He put a hand on my shoulder, "I am so, so sorry, Juliet," he said before turning and going back into the room.

And so I stood alone on the balcony overlooking the ocean. The tears were still rolling down my cheeks steadily, but they had slowed. As I stood there, I could feel myself growing numb. It wasn't that pain and sadness had disappeared, it just sort of buried itself deeply within me—still there, but overshadowed by a much, much stronger emotion.

Anger.

I'm talking a deep, intense fury that burned in the pit of my stomach. Shawn was dead. He had been _killed_. I might not have known exactly how, but I did know that, no matter what the cause was, there was someone to blame.

And that someone was going to pay very dearly.

**OooOooO**

**Oh, mad Jules! And I know that some of you would have preferred me to shamelessly bash Declan, but I couldn't. He's not a bad guy, I (and apparently a lot of you) just hate him. **

**And I am soooooooo sorry for how long this took. I know, it's been a crazy long time since I've updated. Next one will be sooner, I swear!**

**And if you haven't read my little oneshot Rock of the Ages, I'd really appreciate if you did and gave me some feedback! Yes, I know that it's irritating that I wrote a oneshot before I updated this. That's just the result of a strange combo of inspiration, writer's block, opportunity, and computers crashing.**

**PLEASE REVIEW! What do you want to see happen? Thanks so much!**


	8. Reconnaissance

_**SHAWN**_

Just out of curiosity, have you ever been hit full on by a freight-train, dropped from a second floor balcony straight on your head, and then thrown without food or water into a seeming endless, black abyss to be taunted by a hallucination of your should-have-been girlfriend?

On the off chance that the answer is yes, you'll know _exactly_, spot-on how I felt the next time I woke up. Like, with crazy precision.

When I came to, after waking up from my most recent pass out, (I've come to the conclusion that there's no manly way to say that) I was alone. Jules, well, the girl who was being kidnapped that I _thought _was Jules, was nowhere to been seen.

But I could hear her—Fake Jules, that is.

Yeah, I know. Like I didn't seem crazy enough already, right? Don't blame me, it's part of the whole, 'Dropped from a second floor balcony straight on your head' thing. Or, I guess, in my case, part of the whole, 'Shot in the stomach by a couple of trigger-happy assholes' thing.

"Why don't you just go ahead and die already?" I heard her ask. Her voice was as flat and uncaring as it was in the van.

The question was like a punch in the face. It was almost as painful as the hole in my midsection.

Almost. That pain was so intense and all consuming that a teeny part of me was kind of wondering the same thing.

"But if I did that we wouldn't be able to have this lovely conversation," I replied. I can't say whether it was out loud or not, but, judging by the way I was almost incapable of keeping my eyes open, I'm gonna go ahead and guess that my little, psychotic breakdown was all in my head.

"This isn't funny, Shawn. I'm not kidding. Why don't you just die? It's not like anyone will care." She spat.

Now, don't forget that my mother _is _a psychologist. Meaning I understand the deep, contained emotions and all that crap that brought about my little episode.

But let's not dwell on that.

In my haze I couldn't think of any way, witty or otherwise, to respond to Fake Jules. Instead I chose to try and ignore her and survey my surroundings. It was more of myself looking for a distraction than a way out—I hardly think I was coherent enough to really do anything to save myself at that point.

It seemed to me that I was in a heavily wooded area. I could tell that by…well…by the trees… Oh, come on. I wasn't _that _out of it. But lying there, tucked up against the roots of some massive tree with an unnatural crater in my body reminded me all too well of a similar situation from my past. Anyways, upon further inspection I realized that the trees were very closely packed together, and I couldn't see, hear, smell, taste, or feel any sort of civilization around me. Vaguely I remember having this sort of epiphany in the form of a flashback from my first visit to the lovely continent that is Canada.

"_Come on, Shawn! We have to make plans for what we're going to do! If we don't, we won't be able to make reservations. If we don't make reservations, it's going to be like that time we showed up to play Laser Tag without one and we ended up playing with twenty-four six year olds."_

"_Oh, come on, man! You know if we had made reservations we would've ended up with college kids! And if that happened, there's no way we'd have placed sixteenth and nineteenth!" _

"_Not the point, Shawn. The point is that there are so many things we can do, and we won't enjoy any of them unless we plan ahead. Look, do you see how many parks and reservations there are? We should go to one."_

The first thing that this little flashback told me was to never let Gus plan a vacation that I intended to attend. Second of all, it made me think that there was a good chance I was on one of said 'parks' or 'reservations'. I sort of hoped I was on a reservation for like Ligers or something cool like that. They have those in Canada, right?

Not that any of this really mattered. In the back of my mind I realized as I lay there that I was completely stuck inside my own head. I hadn't even tried sitting up. So I, being the perseverant man that I am, decided to rectify that situation.

Now, out in those woods I'd lost basically all perception of time—at this point I could've been out there for five minutes or five days, I had no idea—but I can tell you that it probably took at _least _a good three minutes for me to move a finger. Not only was I in unimaginable pain, but I was exhausted, hungry, thirsty, and about forty-five percent of the blood from my body was on the ground beside me.

At least I had Fake Jules to cheer me on.

"Why are you even trying? It's no use. You're just going to die out here. Alone."

"Well, you're here, aren't you? I'm in pleasant company." I sneered sarcastically.

There was no response, but I didn't mind that too much.

Somehow, I eventually managed to move my arms to my sides so that I could push myself up into more of a sitting position against the tree next to me. I tried my best to mentally prepare myself before I moved. I counted out loud, well, I think I did…

"One…two…three!"

Agony.

Pure pain shot through my body, starting at my stomach and then spreading out in every direction to touch every part of me. I screamed (this I _definitely _know was out loud) and my muscles all involuntarily weakened and gave out, sending me slumping back into my starting position, before they started to spasm.

Slowly the world faded to black around me, but I'm not sure whether it was because so much time had passed that night was falling again, or that my body was finally giving in to Fake Jules' demands.

**OooOooO**

**Oooh. Intense. So it up, whumpers, because I don't think there'll be another Shawn chappie for a while. Next up is probably Lassie/Gus.**

**Thanks so much to everyone for reading, reviewing, and being patient with this story. I'm doing my best, guys, and thanks for being so awesome :D**

**That being said, PLEASE REVIEW! Thanks so much! :D**

_**ALSO, GUYS, A MATTER OF SEMI-BIG IMPORTANCE-**_**That new story I've been teasing for like, forever, has been published! The one that's co-written with the fantastic Syncop8ed Rhythm. It's called "Collateral Damage" and it's under the name of Psydekicks. Here's the link to our profile! I'd really appreciate it if you checked it out! :D**

**.net/u/2693110/Psydekicks  
**


	9. Knowing Hurts

_**GUS**_

Well hello there. I know you haven't heard from me personally for a while now, and you might be wondering why.

Do you want to know why that is? Because yes, there is a perfectly good explanation. And that explanation is that while, yes, I do know more about this case than anyone else—being on the investigative side as well as having a best friend on the other side (you could say vice versa for Shawn, but let's face it, just yesterday I was forced to invest in those bowels they make for toddlers, you know, the ones that make it impossible to spill food. I didn't buy them for myself)—but nevertheless, I also possess certain traits of a civilized person that the other four people telling this story seem to lack. Namely, patience. For the life of me I can't understand why we can't all wait our turn to talk so that this story comes out in an organized, chronological fashion. I made a color-coded schedule in flow chart format and everything, but no one can wait their turn!

Okay, now that I've clarified that, where did we leave off? If I'm not mistaken, last we checked in, Lassiter and I were on our way to the police station in Vancouver to view some hopefully enlightening security tapes. At least, that's where we _should _be if Detective Lassiter has been following the plot line correctly.

So, starting there, the drive back to the station was about thirty minutes, and completely uneventful. The sun was just starting to set by the time we left. I'll bet it was beautiful, but I didn't really notice. For the most part I tried to stay to myself. I was still a little shaken to say the least. Every now and then, though, I would shoot a look over to Lassiter in the driver's seat. The detective wore a completely unreadable look on his face. I was a mixture of sadness, anger, annoyance and worry all rolled into one. Working purely off of that, I'd guess that Lassiter was mad that Shawn got himself into such a mess, annoyed that he had to clean it up as well as be my shoulder to cry on, but worried and sad that Shawn was probably dead.

And Shawn says that _Juliet _is the enigma wrapped in a riddle…

We didn't exchange a single word the entire drive. Most likely because I was too busy trying to keep myself from crying yet again, and Lassiter was too afraid that anything he would say would make me cry.

Anyways, fast-forwarding a little, Macintosh's home station was exactly as I remembered it. A small, glass front building, which was the actual office space, that was smack-dab in the middle of a long annex that served as storage for the department's files and records. Inside, the office is divided into two parts; there's the back that has larger, walled offices for the higher-up officials, and the front that is home to numerous cubicles for the likes of Macintosh.

At first I was confused at how small the station was for a city as huge as Vancouver, but then I realized that Macintosh wasn't part of the Vancouver Police force at all. He's an officer in a Vancouver-based field office for the Royal Canadian Mounted Police, or the "Mounties". There really isn't an equivalent to it in the U.S because they have national, federal, provincial, and municipal authority—it's sort of local police station meets Department of Homeland Security.

So, if you're like me and it seemed strange to you that Macintosh wore a bulletproof vest inside of his own office, this should clarify things for you. It's all part of the uniform.

Okay, now that we have that out of the way. When Lassiter and I got to the "Mounties" station we were led to the back area and into one of the rooms. A plaque on the wall identified the room as the "Viewing Room".

"Let's see here…uh, yes. Looks like we've got…three different angles to work with," Macintosh announced absentmindedly as soon as we were in the room. He cradled ten or so video tapes (yes, tapes. I didn't know they made those anymore…) in his left arm, and was using his right to check the labels and sort the tapes into three different piles.

"Wait, three?" Lassiter spoke up, obviously confused, "I thought that there was only one camera that captured the alley."

Macintosh glanced up from the tapes for a second, "Right you are, Detective. We only have one angle that allows us to see inside the alley. However, we also grabbed footage that should show the streets on either side. That way we'll have videos of anyone who goes in or out of the alley in question."

Lassiter nodded his approval. "How's it coming with identifying the owner of the apartment by the crime scene?"

Macintosh finished sorting the tapes and turned to face Lassiter fully. "Done. Name's Neal Mahoney."

"Well, have you brought him in yet?"

"No."

I could see the color rushing to Lassiter's face. "And why the hell not?"

Macintosh looked slightly intimidated, but, to his credit, stood his ground. "He left for the states yesterday morning on business."

Lassiter groaned and ran a hand through his hair. "And Spencer went missing late last night. So he's not our guy." He stated.

"No, Sir." Macintosh agreed, popping a tape into the player. Yes, there was a video tape player. It was sitting right under the thirty or so inch, boxy, solitary television in the room. "Viewing Room" my foot.

During this whole exchange I was standing quietly in the corner of the room, vaguely paying attention as well as I could through the haze that I was in. If Lassiter noticed my apparent lack of interest, he didn't say anything.

"According to the logs at the prison, Mr. Spencer—Shawn—left last night at around five-twenty. Based on that, I suggest we review the tapes starting from around that time until the time his rental was found. That's about a twelve-hour period; with tapes at three different angles each holding about four hours. That's nine tapes."

I saw Lassiter roll his eyes. "Way to go, Macintosh. It's good to see that you can perform basic math. We're all pleasantly surprised."

Macintosh's face flushed red with embarrassment. "Yes, sir. I only meant to say that we have our work cut out for us."

Lassiter didn't respond, he merely rolled his eyes again and took a seat at the polished wooden table in the middle of the room.

"This could take a while," He grumbled.

He was right.

By Macintosh's brilliant math we had thirty-six hours of film to go through, and one television. We fast-forwarded, of course, but that's still a lot of sitting, and a lot of watching an empty alley with the occasional, fleeting pedestrian. And of course

Shawn has to be late to everything. The Mounties were talking about how curious it was that it took nearly three hours for Shawn to show up in the shot when it should've taken about a half-hour, but both Lassiter and I assured them that it was normal for him and he probably just got lost. We're talking about a guy who gets lost going from his apartment to his office. Everyday. In all fairness, he moves every fifteen minutes, but the guy has a photographic memory. You'd think he'd use it.

Sorry, that's a bit of a sore spot for me.

Anyways, the first thing that caught our attention was definitely not what we were expecting. A teenage girl probably around seventeen was walking down the sidewalk. She was skinny and had long, straight, blonde hair pulled back into a ponytail. Based on her tank-top (it was more of a mank, or 'man-tank', but I promised Shawn I'd never use that word again as long as he stopped using 'bingo') running shorts and tennis shoes, I'd guess that she was out for a nightly jog.

But what caught our attention wasn't so much the girl, but the fact that a pair of hands shot out of the shadowy side of the alley and roughly grabbed her.

"Hey, hey, hey," Macintosh spluttered, leaning forward and pointing in an attempt to call everyone's attention to the screen. He grabbed the remote and returned the video to real time.

Lassiter's feet slid off the table with a thud and the front legs of his chair met the ground. The two other officers in the room reacted similarly and I myself moved to get a better view.

The girl's attacker did a good job of staying hidden, but we could see a few flashes his basic outline as he struggled with the girl. There were no clear shots of his face, but I could tell that he was an older man. I could also make out the shape of a gun tucked into his waistline. After a few seconds, the man removed the hand he had clamped around the girl's mouth to pull a white rag out of his back pocket. I'm sure the girl's screaming was deafening, but there was no sound on the tape. Still struggling with her, the man raised the cloth to the girl's nose and mouth and held it there for just a moment before the girl fell limp in his arms. Then he dragged the girl into the depths of the alley and out of sight.

I assumed the rag was coated in chloroform, and I found it a little strange that the man hadn't begun his attack by using it, instead of keeping it in his back pocket. Because of this I assumed that the man was inexperienced.

There were about ten seconds of inactivity before the star of the show made his appearance. Shawn. He made his grand entrance suddenly, sprinting into the frame and after the girl. I felt my previous anger at him for getting himself into such a mess vanish almost instantly as I realized that he was trying to be heroic.

I then watched my best friend race down the alley, only to stop suddenly as some crushing, invisible force slammed into him. His body jerked back violently, sending him crashing into the ground. Shawn had fallen right on the edge of the shadows concealing most of the alley, but I could make out his hands going straight to his stomach, and then him pulling them away, staring in horror at the blood that already coated them, gasping in pain for a few seconds, and then finally going limp, his chest rising and falling shakily with every breath.

The entire room sat in silence as we watched this unfold, and then helplessly witnessed the same hands that grabbed the girl clasp onto Shawn's ankles and pull him into the darkness.

Macintosh paused the tape, but the silence stretched on. I sat, head reeling for a while, trying to register what I had just seen.

As soon as my mind caught up with my eyes, I found myself stumbling across the room, falling to my knees and emptying my stomach into the trashcan.

All doubt, all hope had been wiped away in an instant. My worst fears had been confirmed. My best friend was dead.

**OooOooO**

**HEY! Remember me?**

**So, before you mob me, I actually really have a good reason this took a million years this time! First off, I broke my clavicle and had to have surgery. It sucked and I couldn't type, but I'm all good now! But then I typed up this chapter—this whole chapter, I had it done and everything! I went to post it and my computer crashed. I legit lost everything. Still a little POed about that. And that happened the morning I left for camp for 3 weeks…**

**On the bright side, this one's long! That, and I SWEAR you will never ever ever ever ever wait so long for another chappie. Ever. I swear.**

**OKAY, we all good? Maybe? Someday? I'M SORRY! Y'all have been so freaking awesome with the reviews. Seriously, I love you guys and I don't deserve you. Please keep the reviews coming, though! Thanks so much!**


	10. Stupidity

_**JULIET**_

Do you have any idea how long the flight from the Eastern coast of Italy to Vancouver, Canada is? Twelve. Hours.

Even on Declan's rather nice private plane, the trip seemed to last an eternity. How long had it been since Shawn went missing? Fifteen hours? A day? I could feel the microscopic sliver of hope I was retaining shrink with each passing minute.

About thirty minutes into the flight I gave up on sleeping. It was sort of the situation where I almost felt like I needed to mute my thoughts or something. They were so loud they kept me awake. Know what I mean? Oh! Have you ever heard the song "So Close" by the Eli Young Band? Well, it was just like that.

I'm not going to lie. During the seemingly endless hours on that God forsaken airplane, I suffered from my own special brand of psychosis. We're talking _major _emotional confusion. I jumped from feeling extreme guilt, to burning anger, to crippling sadness, to complete incomprehension, to just plain detachment about every three to thirty minutes.

Can you blame me? In under half a day I was violently and suddenly ripped out of my potentially perfect Italian paradise and plunged into what can only be described as a living nightmare. (How's that sentence for alliteration?). Now, I wouldn't exactly say that I was having an emotional breakdown. Well, in retrospect, that's actually probably a pretty good description.

It didn't help that I was literally the only passenger on the plane. I mean, I could have gone Orlando Bloom in _"Elizabethtown" _and spilled my soul to my flight attendant, but I see myself as much more of a Rachel from _"Friends"_, confiding in my own, Hugh Laurie-shaped neighbor in the chair next to me. Unfortunately, Hugh Laurie was nowhere to be found. As a result, I ended up muttering to myself quite a bit-About what I can't even tell you.

Yeah. The more I describe the situation the more fitting "emotional breakdown" seems…

By the time the plane landed, a count of sleep depravation could be added to my list of mental hurdles. Luckily, I guess, I had reached the point of such complete, all consuming exhaustion that I didn't so much feel tired, it was just that my brain and my mind were going different speeds, know what I mean? Like, if I were to touch a stove I would get second degree burns before I thought to move my hand.

No big deal.

As soon as the plane's fancy little seat belt sign flickered off, I was up and out of my seat, bag in hand, sprinting to the door. I had to wait almost two minutes before the door was actually opened, which wasn't so good for my sanity. It was probably six in the morning or so by the time I hopped into a car (Declan must've called ahead to have one waiting. Why'd he have to be such a nice guy?)

That was probably the point in time where it hit me. What the heck was I doing? Where was I going? I had no idea what police station Gus and Carlton were at. Was I even going to go to the station, or would I look for Shawn myself? Had they already found him? _Oh God! _I thought. _They could have already found him and I wouldn't even know! _

It was then that I realized what I probably should have spent my twelve-hour plane ride thinking about.

"Where are you headed?" The limo driver's voice pulled me away from the verge of yet another nervous breakdown.

"Uh, the Mounties station," I told him, making a split decision.

"Which one?" He asked.

"Just whatever one's closest," I said, figuring that I could just ask for Macintosh and be redirected if necessary.

"You got it," The driver replied, pulling out of the small airfield.

Of course, as we've surely learnt by now, things don't ever work out that simply for me. Oh no, I couldn't just meet Gus and Lassiter at the police station. That's way too easy.

"What the-?" My driver burst out about ten minutes into our drive.

I looked out my window to see what he was talking about just in time to see a grey pickup truck whipping past our car. The truck was closely followed by two cars, one police car, sirens blaring, one apparently pedestrian car, both of which came fishtailing around the corner up ahead.

I really can't explain it, but for some reason, those three cars gave me this feeling.

I then said the three most idiotic words I've ever said in my entire life. "Follow that car."

How stupid is that? I had no idea who was chasing and who was being chased. For all I knew, I was getting my poor driver into the dangerous pursuit of an armed criminal!

My driver spun around to look at me. "Are you crazy, lady?"

Yes.

"SBPD. Follow that car!" The insanity just wouldn't stop flowing from my mouth as I pulled my badge from my purse and brandished it at the driver.

"Lord help me," He muttered, jerking his steering wheel to make a u-turn.

Yes, I know how stupid and unlikely this sounds, but I swear it happened.

We sped down the road, maintaining a safe but relatively close tail on the cop and civilian cars chasing the truck. The cop car's siren conveniently cleared the road of the few drivers out so early.

The pursuit lasted probably five minutes, ending when the two cars cornered the truck in a dead-end alley. I must admit, I was extremely impressed by my driver's ability to keep up.

"There you go," The driver announced, pulling up to the crowd of cars, "You better be one hell of a tipper."

"Thank you so much," I told him, jumping out of the vehicle.

I was immediately drawn to the commotion over by the perp's truck at the end of the alley. The pursuers had all exited their cars by now, and I arrived just in time to see one of them slam the suspect into the brick wall of the alley, slapping cuffs onto his wrists.

I wasn't surprised to recognize three of the four pursuers.

"Is that him?" I called down the alley, my eyes locked on the truck driver.

All five men spun around to look at me with a look of confusion on their faces.

"Juliet?" Gus called out.

**OooOooO**

**Yeah, I know, guys…**

**So, y'all are ridiculously awesome. Being completely honest, I don't deserve you. I just hope you guys understand that I really am trying as hard as I can to get this written and published. Thanks so much for being so nice.**

**Please review! **


	11. Seven Simple Steps

**Well hi there! *****Sets up barricade and hides*******

**OooOooO**

_**LASSITER**_

Let me give you a little bit of insight into the investigative process. Listen carefully, I generally charge $27.99 an hour for this kind of info.

A good detective doesn't rely on the theatrical crap that Spencer dishes out. He doesn't rely on magic, or luck, or chance, and God knows he sure as Hell doesn't rely on 'psychic visions'. A good detective—no, an astounding detective such as myself relies purely on his inherent instinct and sharply honed powers of observation.

It is for this very reason that I was so rapidly able to confidently identify the scumbag who kidnapped that girl and shot Spencer.

Let me explain.

Step one: Identify whatever people, places, and objects you can.

For example, in this scenario I made an attempt to identify the girl. The man was too obscured by the shadows, so I worked with what I had. It didn't take too long, really. I re-wound the tape as Macintosh went over to help Guster, who was puking his guts out, and I had probably noticed the lettering on the girl's shirt before they even made it to the restroom.

"Hold on, pause it." I commanded the puny little Mountie left behind by Macintosh (come on. An officer _left behind_ by _Macintosh._ What do you expect?).

I got as close to the screen as humanly possible and desperately tried to decipher the white, block lettering on the girl's tank top.

"Southside Terriers," I read out loud, "Track."

"Southside Terriers?" The officer squeaked up. "That's the local high school. I went there."

"And that was when, yesterday?" I couldn't resist the jibe.

So I had identified the origin of the shirt. Step one: check.

Step two: Further investigate connections to said people, places, or objects.

In this case, I quickly obtained the phone number of the Terrier's (what a stupid mascot…) Track coach.

"Coach Ron." A deep, masculine voice answered the phone on the first ring.

"Yes, sir. This is Detective Carlton Lassiter of the SBPD—"

"What the hell is that?" The coach very rudely interrupted me.

"Excuse me?"

"What the hell is the SPPD?"

"S_B_PD, sir. It is the Santa Barbara Police Department—"

"What the hell is Santa Barbara?"

Who is this idiot?

"It is a city, _sir—"_

"Well I've never heard of it."

"How very sad. Now, if you'll please—"

"Could I please talk to some _real _authorities?"

I took a deep breath. "Sir, this is about one of you team members who we believe was kidnapped last night."

To his credit, the buffoon's attitude changed immediately. "Oh. Of course. Anything I can do to help."

"Thank you," I said through gritted teeth, the man having rubbed against just the wrong nerve, "The girl in question looks as though she's an upper-classman—maybe seventeen or eighteen. She's probably about five and a half feet, and has long, straight blonde hair."

"Ellie." The man announced immediately, "Ellie Berrigan."

"Are you sure?"

"Well, that description fits about a handful of my runners, Detective, but only one who missed practice this morning. I was wondering if something was off—Ellie hasn't missed a single practice since she joined the team."

"Thank you very much, sir."

"If you want, I can email you her info—address, phones, relatives and such." Coach Ron offered.

"That would be great, thank you."

I gave him my email and hung up. Step Two: check.

Step Three: Interrogate potential suspects (I love this one).

Quick justice fun fact courtesy of Head Detective Carlton Lassiter: The parents are _always _suspects. No matter how scared or upset they seem. Why do you think I've never had kids? The little twerps can be so rude and disrespectful that sometimes even a respectable man of the law can be pushed to the limit of his restraint.

With the help of the decently useful info given to me by Coach Ron, I was quickly able to locate Ellie Berrigan's family. Turns out, Ellie was originally Ellie Conrad. Her father died when she was an infant and her mother remarried when she was five. The stepdad, Collin Berrigan, legally adopted Ellie and so she changed her last name. She was living with her stepdad and her mother when she disappeared.

"Mrs. Berrigan," I stood in the Mounties' interrogation room, completely in my element, "When was the last time you saw your daughter?"

Mrs. Leslie Berrigan, mother to Ellie, sat in a chair across from me. We had been unable to find Mr. Berrigan, so the mother had to be taken in for questioning alone.

"Yesterday night. She was leaving for her usual run." Leslie answered with a squeaky voice.

Looking the woman over with the analytical genius of a trained enforcer of the law, I swiftly came to the conclusion that she was hiding something.

"And it didn't seem strange to you that she never came back?" I questioned, taking the seat across from her.

Leslie gulped, her eyes flickering from side to side. She didn't seem guilty, per se, she was just hiding something and I knew it.

"Tell me, Mrs. Berrigan. Where's your daughter?" I asked her gently, knowing from experience the best way to handle a woman in a tenuous emotional state such as this.

Leslie looked up at me, her eyes pleading. "He'll kill her. Please, please help her…"

"Who will? Who has Ellie?"

"It's Collin," Leslie began crying, "He's changed. I don't know why, he just has. He's been angry—drinking a lot. I don't know for sure, but I think he's been doing drugs, too. I was so scared. I thought he was going to hurt me or Ellie, so I told him I was leaving."

At this point the woman completely lost herself to her sobs, burying her face in her hands.

"Please, Mrs. Berrigan. Where is he? Not only does he have your daughter, but he has the man who tried to save her, and we have reason to believe he's severely injured."

"Oh, God!" She wailed, "This is all my fault."

"No, Mrs. Berrigan, it isn't. Please, just tell me where your husband is." 

Leslie sniffled and looked up at me, resolute. "I don't know. But he called me last night. He told me that he had Ellie and that he was going to make sure I never left him. He told me not to call the cops or he'd kill her. I have no idea what he's planning, Detective, I swear. He's completely lost his mind."

I sighed and ran a hand through my hair. "Is there anything you can give me? Anything at all?"

Leslie thought for a moment. "I know what kind of car he drives."

Step Three: Check.

Step Four: Issue a BOLO.

Step Four: Check.

Step Five: Pursue suspect.

At just about midnight, Leslie Berrigan described her husband's vehicle as being a grey pick up truck, and gave me the plate digits. It was nearly six the next morning when the BOLO had a hit. 5:47 AM, actually. Guster and I were in our rental at 5:49.

It was a surreal experience to tell you the truth. Guster and I in our crappy little car, Guster in the passenger seat with a giant street map open on his lap, desperately trying to navigate the streets of Vancouver based on the word coming from a police scanner.

I don't think I'll make a habit of it.

It wasn't long before we'd caught up to the patrol car chasing the truck. I wasn't too surprised to learn via scanner that Macintosh and his little lackey (what was it, Dell?) were the ones hot in pursuit. Things always seem to turn out that way.

"Slow down, Lassiter!" Guster yelled as we whipped past a small airport, fishtailing as we went around a corner.

"Slow down? Are you kidding me, Guster? This is called pursuit driving, as in, I have to _pursue_ the car!"

"Don't crash!

"Lookout!

"Lassiter!

"Slow down!

"Oh my God!

"There's a cat on the road!

"Watch it!

"GUSTER!" I yelled over his hysteria.

"What?"

"Shut up!"

The man mercifully kept his mouth shut after that.

After maybe five minutes Macintosh and I had managed to block the truck into a corner. Unsurprisingly, the driver immediately attempted to flee. He hopped out of his car, stumbling a bit as he ran.

Luckily I make a point to maintain a high level of physical fitness at all times. After I swerved sideways, effectively blocking off the last exit available, I switched the car into park and leapt out. Within seconds I had caught up to the man, slamming him into the brick wall of the alley.

Step Five: Check.

Step Six: Book the suspect.

I slapped my cuffs around the middle-aged man's wrists.

"You're under arrest for kidnapping, assault, and attempted murder," I growled (really hoping that we couldn't cross out the word 'attempted' quite yet).

Step Six: Check.

"Is that him?" A familiar yet unexpected voice rang out from behind me.

I spun around to see my partner, hair a mess, eyes red, swollen, and filled with a hatred I'd never seen in her before.

"Juliet?" Gus replied weakly, obviously shocked by her abrupt appearance.

I handed off the man I assumed to be Collin Berrigan to Macintosh as my partner made her way towards me.

"Is that him?" She repeated forcefully.

"O'Hara…" I made my way over to her and laid my hand on her shoulder.

"That's him, isn't it?" She demanded, eyes flashing. "I'm going to kill him, I swear, I'm going to kill him—"

"Juliet!" I cried, shocked. Who was this person?

I gripped her shoulders firmly with both hands and looked her in the eye. "We're going to find him, okay? I promise."

Juliet nodded, her eyes welling with tears that she refuse to let fall. Before I knew what was happening she had gripped me in a fierce hug, burying her face into my chest. I wasn't sure exactly how to respond, so I just wrapped my arms around her and let her use me as a man-sized stress toy.

Step Seven: Save Spencer's ass.

**OooOooO**

**Ack. Not sure I like this. But it's super long! Plus, the majority of you guys seem to like Lassiter's POV, so I thought I'd give it another go.**

**So, guys, I'm not gonna give y'all some drawn out excuse for why it took me forever and a day to update. All I'm gonna say is High School Junior year. Sorry **

**Y'all have been awesome so far, and I absolutely don't deserve it. That being said, it would be super awesome if you review! Thanks!**

**Oh, and Merry Christmas/Happy Hanukkah/Happy New Year! Hope it's fantastic :D **


	12. Reach Out and Touch It

**Hi, there. *Smiles sheepishly***

_**GUS**_

In my time working as a consultant for the SBPD, I've seen Lassiter and Juliet interrogate plenty of suspects. Not only does Santa Barbara have a shockingly high crime rate, but also the SBPD seems to be rather understaffed. As a result, nearly every homicide is wrapped up with Lassie and Juliet in front of the table, and Shawn and I behind the glass—Shawn leaning over every fifteen seconds to whisper a snarky remark into my ear.

For more reasons than I can count, this time was completely different. Shawn _wasn't_ beside me, we _weren't _in Santa Barbara, and Lassiter and Juliet were angry like I'd never seen them.

That's saying a lot, especially concerning Lassiter. We're talking about a man with an ingrained hatred for criminals. Whilst talking to suspects he always has this sort of dark, angry gleam in his eye. Even on the rare occasion that he plays 'good cop' or goes for a laid back technique you can see it there, sort of weighing down on his presence.

That sensation was still there when he questioned Collin Berrigan, only turned up a few notches. There wasn't just a gleam in his eye, his eyes were gleaming. He was absolutely furious, seething with hatred. It's hard to explain, but the best I can figure is that, for him, suspects generally represent something bigger than just themselves. He'll despise a criminal because he's a criminal, not because of his specific crime. That's why he loves catching the bad guy so much. Crime solving is a game for him; he tries to nab as many perps as he can whilst maintaining a detached perspective towards the victims. Lassiter takes steps to avoid personal attachment to cases, so his anger isn't personal. That is, until he faced Collin Berrigan.

Juliet is a completely different story. Her usual emotion stems from her hatred of the crime—she doesn't focus it on the culprit. That's why she's so good at being 'good cop'. She doesn't usually shout or make threats; she sort of just talks to the guy until he fesses up. She's compassionate and understanding and people can just talk to her. It's the whole 'don't hate the player, hate the game' mentality. Unlike Lassiter, it isn't the criminal that Juliet hates, but the crime itself.

That is, of course, until said crime was committed against one Shawn Spencer. That's when things got personal.

Now Juliet was fierce, focused and sharp—every last wayward emotion rattling around inside of her channeled toward breaking Collin Berrigan.

"Tell us where they are." She demanded, thrusting a photo of Shawn and a photo of Ellie in the man's face.

"I don't know what you're talking about." Berrigan claimed for the millionth time, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms.

"Ellie, your daughter, and this man, Shawn Spencer. We have reason to believe that you kidnapped them and that at least one of them is severely injured." Lassiter growled. He was surprisingly controlled, but his voice was low and dangerous.

Collin chuckled a little, and I wanted nothing more than to break through the glass and throttle him.

"That's ridiculous."

"If it is so _ridiculous, _Mr. Berrigan," Juliet questioned, "Why did you run when the police tried to pull you over?"

The effect was immediate. As soon as Collin seemed to realize that he'd been backed into a corner, his eyes darkened and narrowed menacingly.

"You'll never find them." He said, smiling creepily.

My heart stopped. It was him. The man who had in all likeliness murdered my best friend was sitting ten feet away from me. Having suspicions—strong as they were—was one thing, but to have him practically confess? I moved closer to the glass and balled my fists. I wanted to kill him.

By the looks of things, I wasn't the only one. I saw Juliet start towards him, looking as if something primal had taken over her body. I was shocked when not her, but Lassiter swept in and grabbed Berrigan by the collar, lifting him from his chair and slamming into the stonewall behind him.

"Tell. Me. Where. They. Are." He demanded threateningly.

"She left me." Berrigan mumbled insanely. "Fifteen years of marriage and she left me. Oh no. I don't think so. Not okay with me. She leaves when I say she can leave. Thinks she—"

"WHERE ARE THEY?" Lassiter practically screamed into his face, cutting his ramble short.

A deafening moment of silence followed the outburst. The only sound that filled the room was Lassiter's heavy breathing. Juliet stood back few feet looking shell shocked at her partner. As for me, I was practically pressed up against the glass of the observation room.

"Pacific Spirit Regional Park. East of Imperial Drive."

Lassiter and Juliet were headed towards the door before the words had even finished falling from Berrigan's mouth.

"You'll never find them!"

Collin Berrigan called after them. His next words were nearly lost to me as I sprinted after the two detectives.

"Even if you do, you'll be too late. She'll be out of air and he'll be out of blood."

OooOooO

_**SHAWN**_

Fake Jules wouldn't leave me alone.

I tried ignoring her. I tried yelling at her. Hell, I even tried asking nicely. She just wouldn't leave.

"_You're getting closer, Shawn." _She taunted. _"That white light is just over the horizon. All you have to do is reach out and touch it." _

I could tell she was right by the fact that I didn't even have the energy to come up with a response at all—let alone a witty one. Also because the pain had disappeared, leaving a gaping numbness in my midsection. But that's neither here nor there.

"_You sure have hung around for a long time."_

Right again. I had no idea how long I'd been laying in the woods, but it had to have been hours at least. I was shocked, really, that I was still alive. The mystery girl must've done a good job of slowing down the bleeding.

"_They're not coming for you, you know."_

Oh, how I wished she'd shut up. All I needed was the Anti-Jules reminding me of how suckish my situation was as I lay dying on the forest floor.

"_You're getting closer, Shawn. You're almost there. Just reach out." _

I don't know whether my eyes were closed, or if they were open and it was night, but I definitely saw no white light. Somehow that scared me.

"_You're dying, Shawn. It's over. It's time for you to go." _

For the first time in what felt like days, Fake Jules stepped out of the shadows so that I could see her. She came right over to me and fell to her knees beside me. A flare of panic rose in my chest when her cold hands reached out and wrapped around my neck, cutting off the feeble amounts of air still entering my lungs.

"_Just reach out and touch it."_

**OooOooO**

**Okay, how creepy is that? No clue where that came from, but I kinda like it… Not so sure about my Lassie/Jules characterization, though. It's a bit iffy…**

**Okie doke! Let me know what you think. Maybe this is too bold, but I really want to get to 200 reviews, guys. I never have gotten that many for one story. I know I don't deserve it because I update like a loser, but it really means a lot to me when y'all review :D**

**Thanks so much for reading, and thanks to all of you who've reviewed. I really appreciate it :D**


	13. Harry Houdini and Color Television

_**LASSITER**_

"_You'll be too late. She'll be out of air and he'll be out of blood."_

You wanna talk about one sick SOB.

I mean, it's not exactly like I'm the President of the Shawn Spencer fan club, but still. It's messed up.

As I sped down the streets of that God-forsaken, pathetic little non-country, I shot glances at O'Hara and ignored Guster completely. Don't judge me. I'd dealt with his emotional crap enough already. My partner was stone silent, but I could see the panic on her face. A couple of times I considered saying something to her, but I had a feeling that either emotional O'Hara or angry O'Hara would respond. I don't know which is worse.

For the most part I just worked on a plan of action. Pushing the growing sense of hopelessness into the back of my mind, I tried to discern the most efficient method of searching the decently large area of land described by Collin Berrigan. Based on what I knew, I decided that the best thing to do would be to look for Spencer, and then after we found him scan the surrounding area for fresh dirt. If Berrigan meant what it seemed like he meant, he had buried Ellie alive. She'd be nearly impossible to find—it would take a miracle for her to be alive. Our only real hope was that, wherever she was, she would be near Shawn, and Shawn would be out in the open.

I didn't have a radio or really any means of communication with the Mounties—in retrospect we kind of left the station in a hurry without really thinking about what we were doing. As a result I had no idea how they were going about the search and to be honest I didn't really care. My best guess is that they formed a perimeter and worked from the outside in. As for Guster, O'Hara, and me, we drove to the closest edge of the Pacific Spirit National Park, jumped out of the car, and took off, working our way across the park as quickly and thoroughly as possible.

"Have your phones out." I told the two of them as we parted ways. No other words were needed.

If you've never visited the Pacific Spirit National Park, which I imagine that the majority of people in the entire world ever haven't, let me provide you with a mental image. It's only about a mile by a mile and a half, but it has maybe a dozen more trees than the Amazon Rainforest. When I stepped in it seemed to get ten degrees colder and instantly transition into night. I felt like I was trying to find a needle in a barnyard full of haystacks while blindfolded.

I lost sight of O'Hara and Guster pretty much immediately. If it weren't for the sound of their voices calling out Spencer's name I would have no way of knowing whether or not they were still in the park. They could've been mauled by some freaky, Canadian wildlife and I wouldn't have known.

I tried my best to keep myself from thinking as I went. What good would thinking do? The situation was grim to say the least, and it's not like thinking about it would change that. And plus it would require a good deal more introspection than I'm comfortable with. To think about it would be to be faced with the overwhelming probability that Spencer was dead, which would then make it necessary for me to evaluate the nature of my relationship with Spencer and from there decide how to respond emotionally. I didn't want to do that. The fact of the matter is that I just don't particularly like Shawn Spencer. I definitely don't respect him—as a detective at least. Because he's not a detective and he struts around my station like he is. He's insolent, obnoxious, immature, and a royal pain in the ass. But just because I don't like him doesn't mean I necessarily _dislike _him. It certainly didn't mean I wanted him dead.

Want evidence? I was travelling through the wilderness in God's forsaken land trying to save his life.

As I trudged forward the trees continued to assault me—giving me cuts and scrapes and damaging my suit beyond repair—and I found myself wishing that I had a machete to defend myself with. It then occurred to me that this park was a very strange choice of location for a person wanting to bury someone. As far as I had seen there weren't any flat areas large enough to dig a grave without running into trees or roots. I continued searching and considering this idea for around fifteen minutes. After the first five I heard new voices and assumed that the Mounties had finally pulled themselves together and joined us. Just as I began to seriously suspect foul play on Berrigan's part, I stumbled out of the trees and into a small clearing. On the other side of the open area, just barely out of the trees, there was a mound of dirt a shade darker than what was around it.

"Over here!" I yelled as loudly as I could, sprinting over to the pile.

It wasn't long before a Mountie burst into the clearing and began yelling out nonsense, advertising our position.

Immediately I saw that something was off about the (for lack of a better word) grave. It looked like it was caved in on itself. The loose dirt had created a valley—sloping down and inwards on both sides and reaching a depth of about two feet. I dropped to my knees for a closer look and couldn't believe what I saw.

There was a strip of navy blue and a slimmer of blonde.

I reached my hand down into the little pit and touched the navy blue. A shirt. It was part of a shirt.

"Can I get some help over here?" I yelled.

The Mountie that had found the clearing just after I had immediately ran over to me. Gradually a few more found their way to us.

I began digging with my hands, gently clearing off the dirt to uncover the entire figure. I was surprised when I hit wood—she wasn't just buried in loose dirt, she was in some sort of flimsy, makeshift coffin. After a while we had cleared enough dirt to see what it was that I had found: Ellie Berrigan's head. But not like you probably think.

The girl's head was completely intact, attached to her body, with her tank top wrapped around it. The slimmer of blonde that I had seen was her hair. She had somehow managed to break out of the coffin and begin digging herself out into the open air.

The Mountie next to me reached down to check her pulse. "Oh my God, she's alive!"

I nudged his hand away and felt for myself. Sure enough, I felt a soft and slow yet steady beat. "Can I get a paramedic over here?" I called out.

"They're coming, Sir. They're having trouble getting through the trees." Random Mountie #3 told me.

"Well get them here faster. I don't care if you have to tear apart this forest." I snapped at him.

"Carlton!" Finally a familiar, American voice.

"It's Ellie, O'Hara. She's alive."

I wasn't looking at my partner, but I knew that a look of ashamed disappointment crossed her face when she realized that we hadn't found Spencer.

"What? How is that possible?" Juliet asked me.

"We've got ourselves a little Harry Houdini, that's how. She broke out of the coffin. I'm sure she'll have quite a story to tell when she wakes up."

I stood up and crossed over to her, letting the Mounties take over releasing Ellie.

"Well that's…something…" O'Hara said, clearly as shocked as I was. "And Shawn?"

"Nothing yet."

She just nodded, her face a stone mask of emotionlessness.

She stayed that way for all of three seconds.

"OVER HERE! HELP! PLEASE!" Guster's voice rang out from the woods to our right.

Panic, fear, and hope flashed across O'Hara's face all at once and she took off, sprinting towards the voice. I followed her, but I couldn't keep up. I'll never know how she managed to weave through the tightly packed trees like some kind of rodent.

In no time at all I stumbled upon a tiny excuse for a clearing that held Guster, O'Hara, and Spencer.

**OooOooO**

_**SHAWN**_

"_You're getting closer, Shawn." _Fake Jules taunted. _"That white light is just over the horizon. All you have to do is reach out and touch it. You're dying, Shawn. It's over. It's time for you to go."_

For the first time in what felt like days, Fake Jules stepped out of the shadows so that I could see her. She came right over to me and fell to her knees beside me. A flare of panic rose in my chest when her cold hands reached out and wrapped around my neck, cutting off the feeble amounts of air still entering my lungs.

"_Just reach out and touch it."_

I wanted to fight. I wanted to scream. I wanted to cry and kick and yell and just breathe so badly but I couldn't. Fake Jules literally had me in a death grip. She was strong. Far stronger than anyone should ever be and I was terrified. I didn't want to die. I certainly didn't want to die like this—all alone in the cold dark woods in the middle of nowhere.

Would they ever find my body? I couldn't help myself from wondering. Would they ever even know what happened to me? The horrifying thought occurred to me that everyone might just think that I ran off. It's not like it would be the first time. What if everyone I cared about thought that I just up and left, never to return, without even saying goodbye? They wouldn't even know I was dead.

Tears leaked out of my eyes as Fake Jules tightened her grip on my throat, and the world went black.

And in an instant color came back. For the sake of my own sanity I'm choosing to deny the fact that, in order to bring me back to the land of the living, Gus probably kissed me. Oxygen starvation or no oxygen starvation, it's gross.

It's pretty impossible for me to describe what it's like waking up from being dead (not that I have any proof that I was actually dead, it just makes the story more dramatic). The best way I can think of to describe it is that it's sort of like when you turn on your television. The screen's black, nothing's there and then BAM! Full HD color. Only the brightness is turned down really low so slowly you turn it up.

Told you it was hard. I did my best. Deal with it.

Obviously the experience in general was pleasant, what with the whole still being alive and all, but I could've done without the pain. Yeah, the pain kind of sucked. Like, I'm pretty sure I was screaming.

"Shawn!" I think it was Gus who said my name.

I could've lived without the disorientation as well. It was a long time before I was able to see and consciously register my best friend leaning over me.

"Gus?" In reality I slurred some horribly distorted version of his name. Give me a break. I was dead for a bit there. I wasn't even aware enough to be surprised he was there.

And to kick the disorientation up a notch—you know, up the fun factor—who else was there but Juliet O'Hara. You see, my first reaction wasn't the ideal 'Oh, look! Jules left Italy and Declan because she was heartbroken because she thought I was dead and she just had to come and try to find me and now I'm not dead and she's here and I'm here and this is so perfect!' It was more along the lines of 'Oh my God she hates me and she tried to kill me but I'm alive so now she's here to finish the job!'

"Get away," I mumbled as soon as I saw Jules, curling into myself protectively. The action proved to be counter productive, as moving my body created white hot bolts of agony pretty much everywhere.

"What?" I heard Jules's voice but I wasn't looking at her. She was going to hurt me. But Gus was there. Gus would protect me.

"Help me, Gus. Don't let her hurt me."

"What are you talking about, Shawn?" Gus asked me.

Why didn't he understand? She was trying to kill me!

"Please, Gus. It's Fake Jules. She's killing me." I croaked, every word a struggle.

"Fake Jules? What? No, Shawn, this is Real Jules. It's Juliet. You remember Juliet, don't you, Shawn? She'd never hurt you!"

Even I, present day Shawn, have to scoff at that. Like I'd ever forget Jules. And more pressingly, she had sure as hell already hurt me. If you don't know what I'm talking about, see chapter one.

"It's me, Shawn. It's Juliet. I'm not going to hurt you, I'm here to help you." Jules spoke up, sounding reasonably upset.

In all fairness to her, I had just accused her of trying to kill me. In all fairness to me, she had. Well, _she _hadn't, but someone that looked and sounded exactly like her had. Potato potato. Read that last line out loud. Otherwise it just looks stupid.

Anyways, I forced myself to look at Jules, really look at her. Then I saw them. Her eyes. With that insanely clear color blue that manages to make her seem warm, kind, intelligent, and intense all at the same time. It was Real Jules. My Jules. Non-homicidal-slash-psychopathic Jules.

"Okay then, good." I told her. But then my eyelids started getting super heavy. "I'm gonna sleep now." 

"What? No, Shawn, not right now. You can't sleep now, okay, Shawn? Just stay awake." Jules told me.

Real Jules was kind of bossy.

My eyelids were getting heavier and heavier and soon it was impossible to keep my eyes open at all. "Sorry, Jules. Talk to you in the morning, okay?"

And with that my eyes slid shut and the world went black.

**OooOooO**

**Well hi there!**

**For the 8,212,534****th**** time, I'm sorry for being the worst updater ever. I'm trying my best here. Junior year. 'Nuff said. **

**To be honest, this chapter took an extra like, month to publish because I wrote it twice. The first time it was all from Juliet's POV. And guys, it was awful. Straight up terrible. Unspeakably bad. Like, I couldn't bring myself to publish it. Hopefully this is better. Bright side? It's super duper long!**

**So I won't promise much, but I SWEAR that my next update won't take as long as this one did (not saying a lot). There's either one or two left and they'll be out pretty soon, relatively speaking (also not saying a lot).**

**I know it's not fair to ask, but PLEASE review! Feedback legitimately helps my writing process, and also makes me happy :D **

**Thanks! **


	14. It's Always Gus

_**GUS**_

Just in case anyone still needs clarification, this turned out to be the worst few days of my entire life. Not only was I forced to search through the dense, bug-infested Canadian forest for my most likely dead best friend, but also I missed valuable days that should have been spent on my route—wooing clients and making the money that supports Psych in the first place.

And as if that weren't enough, I had to be the one to find Shawn. Of course I was the one to find Shawn. Why wouldn't I be the one to find Shawn? It's not like I have a stomach that turns to Jell-O in the face of viciously maimed flesh and a super-sniffer that has a tendency to be overwhelmed and put out of commission by strong and…unsavory smells.

So basically I wasn't surprised when I found Shawn. And by "I wasn't surprised" I mean, "I was totally surprised". Sarcasm doesn't translate well through text.

I almost ran straight past him, actually. I was moving through the trees as quickly as I could and, now that I think about it, I was more focused on sweeping the whole forest than I was on actually looking for Shawn. I know it doesn't make any sense, but it's not like I was doing it on purpose.

Anyways, it was the super sniffer that saved the day. I was a few steps to the right and ahead of Shawn when I picked up the unmistakable smell of blood. I froze on the spot. You'd think I'd just sprint right up to him immediately, right? Nope. I was terrified. Just absolutely terrified.

It sort of reminded me of the sensation that I had back in the 11th grade. I was waiting for my SAT scores to come in—I wanted to know what I got so badly—but when the big envelope came in the mail I couldn't bring myself to open it. Not immediately, at least. Just the anticipation of knowing how huge the information sealed in that envelope was. Those few seconds that I waited before I opened the letter were spent struggling to achieve some semblance of ignorance towards the situation—as if not opening it meant that I wasn't ever going to have to face the music, be it good or bad.

Of course, I always was a dramatic kid.

I couldn't tell you how long I just stood there. It felt like five minutes but it was probably more like five seconds. After that I just bit the bullet (okay, bad choice of words…) and turned around.

And Shawn was there. Just lying there, so still, so quiet. And if there are two things that my best friend is not, it is still and quiet. He was strewn across the roots of a tree like a ragdoll—completely limp with eyes closed. Oh, yeah! And he had a hole in his stomach—big, gaping and bloody.

"OVER HERE! HELP! PLEASE!" The words were ripped out of my mouth before I could form coherent thought.

It was like half of my mind was numb and half was working in overdrive. Before I knew it I was on my knees next to Shawn. From up close I was slightly relieved to see that the bleeding had pretty much stopped. That is, I was relieved until I remembered that one reason that potentially fatal wounds can stop bleeding is that the person is dead. Their heart isn't beating anymore, their blood isn't being pushed through their veins, they don't bleed.

Then, as I'm sure you can imagine, I began to panic.

"Oh my God. Oh my God, Shawn. Come on," I mumbled frantically.

My hands were shaking but somehow I managed to check his pulse. I almost cried in relief when I felt a beat, slow and weak as it might have been.

"Gus!" I heard Juliet's voice from behind me, but I couldn't tear my eyes from Shawn.

"He's here, Juliet! He's alive."

"Wh-What?"

Juliet somehow managed to convey countless emotions in the one word. I wasn't even looking at her and I could feel the happiness, hope, fear, worry, shock, disbelief, and anxiety rolling off of her in waves.

She moved over to me as quickly as possible and grabbed his wrist, checking to make sure that I was right. Although, as a trained professional in the medical field I don't see why she didn't trust my judgment, but whatever.

I wasn't at all surprised that Juliet didn't seem as shaken by Shawn's state as I was. I'm sure she's seen much worse. I was, however, surprised by just how calm she was. That is, until she turned to me.

"He's not breathing, Gus." She told me fearfully.

It took me a few seconds to register that. How could I not notice something as huge as my best friend not breathing? I didn't just mentally kick myself; I mentally went Chuck Norris on myself.

Without saying anything I positioned my ear above Shawn's mouth like they taught me in CPR training and listened for five seconds. Juliet was right. Nothing.

And that's when I kissed Shawn.

Not kissed like _kissed, _of course. I gave him mouth to mouth. It was gross and disturbing, but kind of badass. I mean, I did bring him back to life and all that. Not that he was really technically dead, but let's keep that between you and me. The ladies love a heroic philanthropist.

Anyways, both Juliet and I were shocked when Shawn woke up suddenly. His eyes opened wide, his body tensed up, and he began to scream. His scream was animalistic and agonized, and it physically hurt me to know that my best friend was in so much pain. If Juliet didn't look shaken before, she definitely did now. Her hands were covering her ears and her eyes were shut tightly as if she could block out the entire world.

"Shawn!" I shouted, hoping to get his attention.

It worked. It was as if Shawn was snapped out of a trance.

"Guzzz?" He slurred but I got the gist.

Shawn looked around, confusion written all over his face. When he got to Juliet he had a surprising reaction.

"Get away!" He mumbled weakly.

It seemed like he tried to shield himself from Juliet but his body sort of spasmed when he moved.

"What?" Juliet sounded astonished. She had removed her hands from her ears when Shawn had stopped screaming.

"Help me, Gus. Don't let her hurt me."

What the…

"What are you talking about, Shawn?" I asked him, genuinely confused.

Shawn's eyes were wide and terrified. He looked like a small child who was left without a night-light.

"Please, Gus. It's Fake Jules. She's killing me." Shawn's voice was almost a sob at this point.

I felt so lost. I felt for Shawn, really I did. I could tell how scared he was but I just didn't understand why.

"Fake Jules? What? No, Shawn, this is Real Jules. It's Juliet. You remember Juliet, don't you, Shawn? She'd never hurt you!"

"It's me, Shawn. It's Juliet. I'm not going to hurt you, I'm here to help you." Juliet spoke up, edging closer to Shawn.

And then Shawn stared at her. He stared at her for a long time. The look on his face made it seem like Juliet was the key to the universe and maybe if he just kept looking he'd uncover the meaning of life. The longer he stared, the softer his eyes became. As I watched the fear seemed to evaporate out of him.

The silence that had fallen as Shawn inspected stretched on. After a while I could hear the rustling of the paramedics accompanied by Lassie's yelling. I guess he had left to go get help as soon as he saw Shawn.

"Okay then, good. I'm gonna sleep now." Shawn finally said, baffling me even more.

Juliet was panicking before I had even realized the ramifications of Shawn's statement.

"What? No, Shawn, not right now. You can't sleep now, okay, Shawn? Just stay awake."

"Sorry, Jules. Talk to you in the morning, okay?" Shawn replied weakly before he lost consciousness again.

"No no no no no! Come on, Shawn! Wake up now." Juliet was absolutely freaking out. "Not now, Shawn. Not after you've made it this long. Hang in there just a little while longer, okay? Please, Shawn!" She was shaking his arm, which couldn't be helping.

"Juliet!" I tried to grab her arm but she yanked free.

"Open your eyes, Shawn!"

"Juliet!" I yelled louder this time and grabbed her arm firmly. That got her attention and she turned to me, eyes as wide and terrified as Shawn's had been. "He's fine. He's just unconscious. I know that's not ideal, but at least he's alive, okay?"

Juliet just stared at me for a moment and then nodded. She took deep breaths and steadied herself.

Just seconds later Lassiter and an entourage of paramedics broke through the trees. Immediately we were pushed out of the way as they swarmed Shawn. In a heart beat they had him strapped to a stretcher and were carrying him away as quickly yet safely as possible.

When they were gone I sighed and closed my eyes, exhausted all of the sudden. We had done our part and found him; it was all up to Shawn now.

**OooOooO**

**Okay, I wanted to make this the last chappie and have a second section from Shawn's POV, but I legit just don't have time right now. It was either just this or at least another two-week wait. I hope it's okay!**

**Shameless plugging, I encourage everyone to read my co-written story, ****Collateral Damage, ****that I'm writing along with the fabulously talented Syncop8ed Rhythm. It was recently updated and I'm super excited about it!**

**Please review guys! What do you want to happen? I can rarely resist following through with reviewer requests! And please help me hit 200 reviews! That's my goal!**

**Thanks :D **

**PS. I'm not proof reading this for lack of time. If you see anything glaring let me know! Gracias! **


	15. While I Was Sleeping

**Let's face it; it could've taken waaaay longer…**

**OooOooO**

_**SHAWN**_

Waking up in a hospital is really weird. Like, SUPER weird.

If you're wondering why you've obviously never been shot, kidnapped, and left to die in the God-forsaken Canadian woods where you suffered from traumatizing delusions before waking up in, yes, a hospital.

Because I obviously have no clue if you can relate to what I'm saying (let's be real, this story is being told via computer) I'll explain.

First of all, there's something to be said about the creepiness of waking up in a bed that's not yours and not knowing why. I know this is hard to believe because I _obviously _remember so much about my time camping, (insert sarcastic tone here—once again, troubles of communicating through computer) but I barely remembered even landing in Canada when I first woke up.

Here's a tip for those of you suffering from Leo DiCap/Dom Some-type-of-salad/Inception-like symptoms. When you wake up from a dream it's usually the case that you forget the dream more and more as time goes by. Waking up from reality is the exact opposite. As you become engrossed in the real world things slowly come back to you.

Who needs a cheap spinning top anyways?

So, yeah, basically I woke up not knowing where I was and got freaked out.

Second of all, I know that _Lifetime _Original Movies tell you that it's wonderful to wake up from a coma surrounded by friends and family, but as I've already mentioned, this is _not _a _Lifetime _Original Movie, and a side effect of my "first of all" was not knowing that I had just woken up from a coma. It felt like I just woke up from a nights' rest and, I'm sorry, but it's creepy to wake up with Burton Guster staring at you. It's terrifying, really.

Not that I was _technically _in a coma, but let's pretend that I was for dramatic effect. That way I can be Peter Gallagher and Jules can be Sandra Bullock. Maybe Gus can be Bill Pullman?

…Wait…scratch that. That is SO not how this story is going to end…

And Sweet Baby J, I don't even have a third of all! First I mess up a movie reference and now I'm miscounting my insight into the mind of an almost-coma-patient? Maybe I should go back and see the doctor…

You know what? I'm going to start this again from a different narrative approach.

*Ahem

When I woke up in the hospital I was shocked and more than a little disturbed to find Gus sitting my bedside. For the first few moments after my return to the land of the living I couldn't remember a thing about Fake Jules, anonymous blonde girl, or having my insides ripped apart my a cold and impersonal bullet.

So basically my first thought was _'What the crap is Gus doing in my room?"_

"What the crap—" Before I could verbalize the aforementioned sentiment, good Ole' Burton practically leapt on me.

"Oh my GOD, Shawn!" He yelled, reaching over me and clicking the nurse call button about ten more times than what a normal person would consider obnoxious.

"What the hell is going on, Gus?" I asked him, making to push him off of me but stopping when I felt the excruciating pain in my stomach.

"You mean you don't remember?"

I rolled my eyes.

"No Gus, I remember. I just like hearing about my life from a third party, just to get another perspective."

Gus looked at me quizzically. "Now I'm pretty sure that that's sarcasm, but I think we both know that it's pretty much true."

I paused to think about this for a moment. I _do _like reading articles and watching news specials about my many exploits. Touché, Burton. Touché

"Yes, Gus, it was sarcasm." I said heavily as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.

"Well, basically you're in Canada. You were shot trying to save a teenager named Ellie from being kidnapped by her dad." He told me.

"Is she okay?" I asked, not totally sure who this girl was, but knowing enough to know that it mattered.

"Amazingly enough, yes. That psycho guy buried her alive and dumped you in the woods. You guys were there for hours but both survived somehow."

"Well you know me, Gus, I'm like a cat. I always land on my feet." I said, relaxing back into my pillows.

"I think you mean that you have nine lives." Oh, Gus. Always the know it all.

"I've heard it both ways."

Gus looked at me, stunned. "Actually, this time I bet you have…" He said in awe.

"Well of course I have! Don't look so surprised."

After a few moments of silence a nurse rushed in (what took her so long?) and began checking my vital signs.

"So," I began casually as the nurse worked on me, "I guess Jules is still in Italy or wherever with that detective wannabe Declan…"

So what? I'm a hypocrite, sue me.

…

Scratch that, don't sue me. Just whatever, okay?

"You mean you don't remember?" Gus asked me. AGAIN.

I rolled my eyes. AGAIN.

"You know, Gus, I'm starting to wonder if you didn't suffer a head trauma when I suffered my abdominal trauma. Of course I don't remember! I only must've lost like, seventeen gallons of blood."

"That about fifteen times the amount of blood in the average human body, Shawn, and no, that one you haven't heard both ways."

"Whatever, Gus. Jules?" I practically pleaded, not sure that I wanted to know the answer.

"She's not with Declan anymore, Shawn. She's here. She's been came home the second she heard that you… well, that you…"

"That I what?"

"Well," Gus started awkwardly, clearly not wanting to tell me something, "I may or may not have told her that you were most likely dead."

"What?!" I exclaimed, trying to sit up once more only to fall back in pain.

Gus was rewarded with a reproachful look from the nurse this time.

"Well I thought you _were_ dead!" He defended himself weakly.

"Who all did you tell? Did you tell my dad that I was dead? Please tell me you didn't tell my mom!" I didn't even want to imagine my parents' reactions if they were told that their pride and joy had been killed.

"No! Of course not. We didn't call your dad until after we found you. Juliet's the only one I told. It was sort of a heat of the moment type thing…"

I sighed, calming down a little. Bullet dodged.

Well… metaphorically. I wasn't quite so lucky to dodge the literal bullet…

"Wait, so…hold on," I began, my mind a little fuzzy, "Where is Jules?"

"She went to get coffee. She'll be upset that she wasn't here when you woke up This is literally the first time she's left your bedside since you've been out."

"Well how long have I been out?" I wondered. Shockingly enough, you don't have the best sense of time when you're in a situation like mine.

"A few hours. Your surgery was painfully long. Like six hours or something like that. You lost a lot of blood." Gus shivered on that last bit. I knew better than to ask him about it yet, but I had a feeling that he had gotten a first hand look at the very blood he was talking about.

"Well, buddy, it's all over now." I told him reassuringly.

"Shawn?" A new yet familiar voice came from the doorway. She sounded so shocked that I'm surprised she didn't drop her coffee.

"Jules."

Or maybe it wasn't quite over yet.

**OooOooO**

**Glorious, beautiful people! You are all so wonderfully fantastic and I mean that from the bottom of my heart. I can never thank you enough for your overwhelming support.**

**Obviously I have to throw out a bit of a JK LOL about the whole 'this is the last chapter' thing. I didn't expect Shawn's rambling to go on so long, but I don't know. I quite like it, actually. There should be some Juliet and Henry follow up, at least, maybe Gus and Lassie if you want to see it. LET ME KNOW!**

**You all have been such great followers, I really want to give you what you want to see happen. So what do you want to see happen? Let me know in a REVIEW! I do my best to honor all requests!**

**Btdubbs, Shawn's botched movie reference is to "While You Were Sleeping". Basically he inadvertently implies that Jules and Gus end up together. Ewww. The other reference is to "Inception". Leonardo DiCaprio's character's last name is Cobb, like a Cobb salad. At least that's what I think of…**


	16. Loose Ends

_**LASSITER**_

Before I turn you over to O'Hara to let her _regale_ you with her little soap opera's nauseating conclusion, I, the voice of reason in this story, will try and tie up some loose ends.

If you possess even the slightest amount of common sense (and aren't too caught up in Spencer and O'Hara's melodrama to pay attention) you'll be wondering how in the name of John Langley Ellie Berrigan managed to survive. She was down there, buried alive for _hours. _Best case scenario, she should have had enough oxygen for just over one hour. So how did she do it? Did some higher being intervene? Was she secretly in on the plan the whole time? Are we lying and saying she lived just to make the ending happy? No, no, and, while I do respect the cynicism, no.

The answer, ladies and gentlemen, lies in the fact that the seventeen year old Ellie Berrigan is one smart, hormonally charged, angst-ridden cookie.

When she came to consciousness, buried alive, she didn't panic, but rather she turned to information she had gathered via google. Yes, a seventeen year old managed to escape from a coffin because of _google. _I swear on my badge I am not making this up. I have her statement right here in front of me. Apparently, she saw the movie "Buried" a while back (you know, the one with the guy who kind of looks like Dane Cook) and felt the need to google 'buried alive' to check the movie's validity. Yes, I know, I'm liking this girl too. Anyways, it turns out that she happened upon an article about what to do if you're buried alive.

The first thing she did was pull her shirt up over her head and tie it off, basically making a bag encasing her eyes, nose, and mouth. Lucky for her, not only had Collin Berrigan buried her in a flimsy, unsubstantial coffin, he had also rushed and put her just a couple of feet under the dirt. Ellie was able to punch a hole in the middle of the coffin by kicking the wood repeatedly as hard as she could. Dirt began to come into the box after she'd done that, so she used her feet (and hands when possible) to push the earth towards the foot of the coffin and away from her. Basically, she let the dirt that had been on top of the coffin in so that it was out of her way. She was then able to wriggle herself through the opening and into fresh air. Well, mostly. Eventually she passed out due to the low levels of oxygen and stayed unconscious until we found her.

If this girl wasn't a kid and wasn't, well, Canadian, I'd enroll her in the Academy myself. I mean, how many teenagers in the entire world would think of that? I guarantee you I could count them on one hand. After all that hell that she went through, Ellie just spent a couple of hours with a breathing mask and then she was right as rain. I mean, the doctor also said something about the potential for life-long emotional trauma, or something like that, but I have a feeling that this kid is the type to laugh in the face of emotions whilst fighting a bear with her pinky toe. We must be related somehow.

As for that scumbag Collin Berrigan, he's seen the last of his free days. It turns out that the Mounties view the kidnapping and attempted murder of two innocent people as a fairly major infraction. We had gathered some pretty damning evidence against him (seeing as we taped his interrogation and he basically admitted to everything) so the chance of him getting off is practically nonexistent.

You'd think that after all of that, after finding Spencer and Ellie and throwing Berrigan behind bars, the worst would be over. You'd be very, very wrong.

I was relaxing in the hotel room that I had just booked for O'Hara and Guster (two bedrooms, of course, so they had somewhere to stay while Spencer was in the hospital. I, for one, was on the next flight home to Santa Barbara) when my phone rang. My caller ID said "Unknown". That should have been a dead giveaway that it was a bad idea to answer. Why would I ever want to talk to someone I don't know? More pressingly, why would I ever want to talk to someone that I do know, but don't like enough to put their name in my address book?

"Carlton Lassiter, Head Detective at the Santa Barbara Police Department."

"Lassiter, where the hell is my son?

I shot off the couch, almost dropping my phone from the sheer horror. There were very few people that I wanted to hear from less at that moment (or any, really) than Henry Spencer. Don't get me wrong, compared to his goofball kid Henry is downright delightful. Then again, so is McNab.

"If you don't answer me within five seconds I will make you regret the day you stepped into the police academy."

Oh, yes. Not only was this Henry Spencer, this was a very, very angry Henry Spencer. It was like I was on the phone with a mountain lion that had just been punched in the face.

"He's…in Vancouver… " I answered slowly, wanting more than anything to be anyone but me.

"LASSITER!" Henry's voice came bellowing through the receiver. Perfect. I had punched the lion again.

"He's in a hospital…in Vancouver." I amended, suddenly pitying Shawn's childhood.

"Why the hell didn't anyone call me?! Did you think that I wouldn't realize that something was off when you didn't show up to work and both Shawn and Gus were unreachable by phone?"

"Maybe…"

"How is he? What happened?" I was surprised that Henry didn't respond to my answer. His voice was still furious, but there was now an undertone of concern.

"He was shot," I told him, "trying to save a young girl. And he's alive. He had just gotten out of surgery when I left about an hour ago. It doesn't look good, but he's alive."

"I want to talk to him. Put him on the phone." Henry demanded.

"I can't Henry, I'm not at the hospital. Call O'Hara or Guster."

"Oh, please," Henry scoffed, "do you seriously think that you're my first choice? They didn't pick up their phones. Now put Shawn on."

I'm not one to back away from a fight, but I'm also not stupid. Fathers are dangerous enough when it comes to the safety of their children, but when said father is Henry Spencer?

"Fine," I sighed, "but I'll have to drive over to the hospital. I'll call you when I get there."

Henry's voice stopped me before I could hang up.

"Oh, no you don't. On they way there you can tell me everything that happened."

Oh, what a car ride it was. For the most part, Henry was surprisingly quiet. He just listened as I told him about the horrors that his son had experienced over the past day and a half. Somehow, I think I liked it better when he was yelling.

Before I knew it I was outside of Spencer's room. I was surprised to find that I really didn't want to go inside-and not just because, as a general rule, I prefer to avoid Spencer at all costs. As I've likely hinted at before, saying that I'm anything close to fond of Shawn Spencer would be a gross overstatement. But that doesn't mean that I want to see him injured, maybe even dying in a hospital bed. As much as it pains me to say this, he's not totally useless at the SBPD. He may be damn annoying, but-and don't you dare repeat this-sometimes he can actually be borderline helpful.

"Okay, I'm here." I told Henry as I walked into the room. Shawn's eyes were closed and he lay motionless in bed. "He's asleep, I think."

But when I turned to close the door behind me, I felt something soft collide with the back of my head. I, being a vigilant enforcer of the law, spun around quickly, gun drawn. I must have also made some sort of noise, because Henry was shouting at me on the other end of the phone.

Shawn, for his part, was laughing hysterically.

"Sweet baby J, Lassie! Calm down! God, laughing hurts. Throwing hurts, too, but boy was that worth it!"

I looked between Shawn and the small, pineapple-shaped stress toy lying at my feet incredulously.

"Everything's fine, Henry," I told the panicked man on the phone, putting up my gun, "your son is just being an idiot."

I heard Henry sigh, likely out of some combination of relief and frustration. "So he's back to normal, then?"

"Oh, lighten up, Lassafrass! Don't be so lame. You can't blame a man for keeping himself entertained in this place."

"You can't have been awake for more than an hour, Spencer."

"Well, yeah, but Gus and Jules went to get lunch fifteen minutes ago! They left me all alone, Lassie! Can you believe that? Alone!" Shawn cried tragically. He makes it so hard to feel bad for him.

"It must be so hard for you." I said dryly.

"I'm glad you understand, Lassie," Shawn smiled, "They are getting me a pineapple smoothie, though, so I think I'll make it."

"Put Shawn on the phone." Henry was saying in my ear.

This was my worst nightmare. Trapped between two Spencers.

"Your dad." I told Shawn shortly, handing him the phone.

Shawn's eyes widened and he stared at me in horror.

"Oh, no," He moaned, "Tell him I'm dead!"

I rolled my eyes. And shoved the phone into his hand.

"Hello?" Shawn answered cautiously.

I couldn't hear the other half of the conversation, but I didn't miss how Spencer's eyes closed in exasperation. I definitely did not envy him.

For the first time since I had come into the room I was really able to look at Shawn. He had been acting and sounding so normally that I hadn't realized how awful he looked. He was pale and had dark bags under his eyes. His hair was wild, and one arm was wrapped around his stomach protectively. It was a miracle, I realized, that he had managed to hit me with that thing at all. Machines were connected to him from all sides. Monitoring his breathing, monitoring his heart rate, monitoring everything. Who knew there was so much to monitor?

"Yes, dad…I know, dad…Yeah, yeah, I get it, okay?" The poor guy was practically under attack. I couldn't help but feel bad for him.

And then I did something that I can't explain. Driven by some unnamed force, I reached out and grabbed the phone from Shawn.

"Sorry, Henry, but the doctors are in here to run some tests. Shawn will have to talk to you later." I said, and then hung up before he could respond.

Shawn looked at me in wonder for a few seconds before a massive, goofy smile grew on his face.

"Thanks, Lassie!"

"Don't mention it." I grumbled. I'd been around O'Hara for too long.

"No, seriously, Lassie. Thanks. He was eating me alive. I mean, I know he cares and is worried about me and all, but he was lecturing me about emergency gunshot care in the field. He taught me that one time when I was twelve-we used one of my old stuffed animals and-"

"Yeah, yeah, Spencer." I cut him off, heading for the door. "Just get some rest, okay? You look like hell."

"You got it, boss," Spencer said, still smiling as I walked out the door.

**OooOooO**

**You are all wonderful, wonderful people. I am so lucky to have followers like you! I know that I said this would be the last chapter, but I realized that there were too many loose ends for just one. I hope you liked it! I did my best to fulfill as many requests as I could in this chapter. Any for the next?**

**If you get a chance, please visit my profile to vote on a poll concerning my next story. I am almost positive that I will finish this story before I go back to school!**

**Thanks again, and please, please review! Happy holidays! :D**


	17. Endings

**I really hope you guys like this! Those of you who have read my other stories probably realize that they all end pretty similarly. I'm trying to keep the resolutions as unique as possible, so I tried something kind of new. Enjoy!**

**OooOooO**

_**JULIET**_

I'm going to backtrack just a tad—back before Lassiter got the call from Henry and before walked in on Shawn awake.

I was in the body of the hospital, getting myself a cup of that stereotypically terrible coffee, when an unexpected thought occurred to me. What on Earth was I going to say to Shawn when he woke up? Up until a few hours previously I had been working under the assumption that he was dead. Of course I was much happier the way things had turned out, but…I've never been the best with words. That's Shawn's area.

I needed to find a way to tell him just how much I care about him and how glad I was that he was okay. But at the same time I didn't want to be overbearing. I wasn't exactly ready to profess my love for him or anything like that. I didn't want to be '_that girl'._ You know, the one who is all melodramatic and emotional and likes to skip the first four stages of a relationship.

I was still wondering exactly what I should say when I walked into Shawn's room to see him wide awake, sitting partially up in bed and talking to Gus.

"Shawn?" The name slipped out before I could stop it.

"Jules." He replied, a little shakily.

Gus was out of his chair and headed to the door in a heartbeat. "Yeah," He cleared his throat, "I'm gonna go to the place with the thing…" He muttered awkwardly, going out into the hall and closing the door behind him.

I just stood there, staring at Shawn in surprise. It was surreal, really, seeing him alive and kicking. It was like he was back from the dead or something.

"Hey, Jules."

I must've been standing and staring for a bit longer than social standards would deem appropriate, seeing as Shawn was staring straight back at me with a concerned look on his face.

With this in mind I resolved to say something…anything. Anything at all…

Seriously, nothing would come out of my mouth. My mind was completely blank. What follows can absolutely be described as the most embarrassing moment of my life. It was like every ounce of feminism in my entire body ganged up on me and took over.

I started crying.

And by crying I mean sobbing. Uncontrollably. I tried to stop, really I did, but it was like the shock and exhaustion and just _everything _was too much for me.

Shawn shifted awkwardly in his bed. He's never been good with crying.

"Um, Jules, are you okay?"

God, why did he have to be so nice to me? Asking _me _if _I _was okay? While he was the one laying in a hospital bed after almost dying? After I rejected him?

The whole situation was so messed up.

"I'm so sorry, Shawn." I choked out as I headed towards the door.

Don't judge me, okay? I knew I was no good to either of us while I was sobbing like a little girl. I just needed to take a walk, pull myself together, and figure out what needed to be said.

Shawn, however, would have none of that.

"Whoa, whoa, wait, Jules. Hold on a sec. Don't you think you've walked out on me enough for one year?"

It took Shawn a grand total of about three seconds to realize that that was not the right thing to say.

"Okay, look, I'm sorry. I didn't mean that. Just don't leave. Please?"

Something in Shawn's voice made me turn around. He wasn't one to beg—not seriously, at least—but here he was, begging me to stay. How could I say no to that? I dropped my hand from the door handle and turned around, sniffling and wiping at my eyes even though the tears continued to fall.

I looked at Shawn and saw how pale he looked. I saw how weak and helpless he was and, you guessed it, started crying even harder. Which, by the way, I didn't know was possible. I swear, that coffee must've had some sort of estrogen supplement in or something…

"Oh God, Jules, you know I'm not good with the whole crying thing!"

"I know! I'm s-sorry! I can-can't stop."

Shawn sighed a little and looked at me sadly.

"Come here, Jules." He said quietly, after a moment.

"Wh-What?" I choked out, more than a little confused.

"Come here." Shawn repeated, this time scooting himself over a bit on his bed and patting the sliver of space next to him.

I stared at him incredulously for a second. Was he being serious? Going beyond the whole, he should hate me thing, me lying in bed next to him couldn't be good for him in his physical condition.

"Oh, come on, Jules! You aren't going to hurt me!" I swear, sometimes he can read my mind.

Shawn put on his best puppy dog face. "Please?"

As if by their own free will, my feet began to carry me towards Shawn. I kept telling myself to stop, but my body just wasn't listening. By this point the sobbing had mercifully subsided, although tears continued to flow steadily down my face.

Let me just take a moment to explain something. I don't ever cry. Really, honestly, never. I mean, sure, I've cried a handful of times when things have gotten really rough, and I'm sure I cried plenty as a baby, but still, it's a rarity.

But there I was, in front of Shawn, crying like a toddler who dropped her lollipop. Let me once again impress upon you the sheer humiliation that I felt at this point.

"See? That wasn't so hard, now was it?" Shawn said soothingly as I pulled myself up onto the bed next to him.

Considering the fact that I had about six square inches of personal space, I had to curl right up against Shawn and throw my arm across his chest (carefully avoiding his wounds) to keep from falling off the bed. Not that I minded it _that _much…

We just lay there together for a few minutes. Even practically wrapped around Shawn as I was, I was still less than comfortable on the edge of the bed. And then, of course, I was doing a nice job of dampening the shoulder of Shawn's hospital gown where I was resting my face. On all counts, the whole situation should have been uncomfortable and awkward.

But somehow it wasn't. I really can't explain it, but for some reason everything seemed…right. I felt Shawn next to me, really felt him. He was alive. He was breathing—I could feel his chest move up and down and his heart beating. I had come so close to losing him.

I thought back to that phone call from Gus—the worst phone call I could ever receive. I thought back to the horror that I had felt in that moment and I gripped Shawn a little bit tighter.

Shawn chuckled lightly, an action that felt strange but pleasant to me in my position.

"Okay, Jules. What's going on?" He asked me quietly. "Talk to me."

"I thought you were dead." I told him honestly.

"Jules—" Shawn began sympathetically.

I realized that he just didn't understand. He had no idea just how bad things had seemed for a while.

"No, Shawn. You don't get it. I thought you were dead. I _knew _you were dead. And now you're here, and it's like you're back from the dead, which is amazing, but for a little while you were dead and I had to deal with that. How do you deal with that? I thought you were gone and the last thing you'd have known was me walking out on you—"

(For the record, that whole psychobabble was a lot less coherent due to the crying and the lightning-fast speed at which it was all said. I thought I'd save us all time and effort by decoding it for you.)

"Look, Jules, I didn't mean that—" Shawn interjected.

"Yes you did and you were right. I did walk out on you, and you know what? I don't even know why. I would never in a million years choose Declan over you—"

"Then why did you?"

In that one sentence Shawn managed to sound small and hurt and insecure. I think a little piece of me died inside.

"I really don't know why, Shawn."

"Nope. Sorry, Juliet, but that's not going to fly. I think I deserve a bit more of an explanation."

I shifted slightly, propping myself up on one elbow so that I could look Shawn in the eye. I wasn't crying anymore.

"I made a mistake, Shawn. I saw Declan and just…he's a constant. He's predictable, and you're…you're spontaneous. I love that about you, I just didn't know that that's what I wanted. I know that now." I tried my best to explain what I myself didn't understand.

For his part, Shawn did all he could to avoid making eye contact with me. I resigned myself and, with a sigh, returned to my former position.

"You must hate me." I whispered. I could feel the tears begin to well up again, but was determined to keep them back.

There was a moment of painful silence that lasted long enough for me to wonder if Shawn had fallen asleep.

"I could never hate you, Jules." Shawn finally said, almost inaudibly. "I love you too much."

In an instant my heart stopped and the floodgates opened. Yep, I started crying again. Seriously, I must have been setting records. This was a different kind of crying, though. A good kind.

If you out there reading this is a girl you'll understand. Maybe…

Shawn must've realized at some point that I was crying, because he kind of started freaking out.

"Oh God, I'm sorry, Jules. I shouldn't have—"

At this point I, fully aware of my lack of eloquence, propped myself back up and kissed Shawn. Yep. I kissed him.

When I pulled back Shawn finally looked me in the eye. He had his classic goofy grin stretched across his face. It only took me one look to know that everything was going to be okay.

OooOooO

_**SHAWN**_

So there you have it. A classic love story (with a bit more blood and sarcasm than you would generally expect) where everyone lives happily ever after (at least I hope we do. This really didn't happen all that long ago).

I'm really not sure what else there is to say. I sort of pushed off all of the mushy stuff over to Jules. What can I stay? I'm not good with that kind of stuff. In the category of emotions I fall somewhere between Lassie and a Carebear. Granted, that's a pretty big range, but in all fairness, I really have no idea where I fall. I haven't really tested the emotional waters, per se. I prefer to use Gus as my kayak to move from place to place.

…

Wow. That metaphor got completely out of hand. It both made no sense and sounded pretty awkward. I apologize for that.

Anyways, the point is that, had I tried to relate the part of the story that Jules just did, the whole thing would end up like that metaphor: nonsensical and awkward. I spared us all that experience. You're welcome.

I suppose you lovely plebeians (not really sure what that means. It's like, people, right? They both start with 'p' so that must be right) want to know what happens next. Well, like I said earlier, in between those little symbols that make the ribs of the fish (check it out! )))* Awesome, right?!) this all happened like, two months ago, so there's not much to tell.

Jules and I are still together. What a relief, right? I mean, how awkward would that be? 'Yeah, after all this drama and life or death stuff we went on a few dates, but it didn't work out'. I mean, this is a story about me, not Gus!

Okay, that was cold. Sorry about that.

Anyways, as you can probably tell, this story has lasted a bit longer than my ADHD can handle. Really, it's a miracle that I've held on this long.

I hope you guys enjoyed your semi-stalkerish glimpse into my admittedly awesome life. Stick around; there are more adventures to come.

**OooOooO**

**I feel like this should go without saying, but I'm going to say it anyway. Y'all are the greatest ever. I really, honestly mean that. This story took me a pathetically long time to write, and you guys have been nothing but nice to me. I really hope y'all liked it even though it took like three years! **

**I know what the ending sounds like, but at this point I have no plans for a sequel. I'm going to finish "A Little Birdie Told Me" and then head into my karma killer story. Speaking of, I'd really appreciate it if you visited my profile and voted on which point of view you think it should be written in. **

**And for the final time, thank you all so so much. I hope you had half as much fun reading this as I had writing it. It would be awesome if you reviewed one last time! **


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